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CANDIDA 

A PLEASANT PLAY 
By 

BERNARD SHAW 




NEW YORK 
BRENTANO'S 

1913 

Price 40 cents net 




WORKS 

BERNARD SHAW 



Dramatic Opinions and Essays. 2 vols. Net, $2.50 

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CANDIDA 



A PLEASANT PLAY 



By 

BERNARD SHAW 



/ 






7 7 




NEW YORK 

BRENTANO'S 

1913 



3 



Copyright, 1898, by Herbert S. Stone & Co. 



Copyright, 1905, by Brentano's 



&CI.A361156 

1 






s 



CANDIDA 



5 



CANDIDA 



ACT I 

A fine October morning in the north east suburbs of London, 
a vast district many miles away from the London of Mayfair 
and St. jfames's, much less known there than the Paris of the 
Rue de Rivoli and the Champs Elysees, and much less narrow, 
squalid, fetid and airless in its slums; strong in comfortable, 
prosperous middle class life; wide streeted; myriad-populated; 
well-served with ugly iron urinals, Radical clubs, tram lines, 
and a perpetual stream of yellow cars; enjoying in its main 
thoroughfares the luxury of grass-grown "front gardens ," un- 
trodden by the foot of man save as to the path from the gate to 
the hall door; but blighted by an intolerable monotony of miles 
and miles of graceless, characterless brick houses, black iron rail- 
ings, stony pavements, slaty roofs, and respectably ill dressed or 
disreputably poorly dressed people, quite accustomed to the place, 
and mostly plodding about somebody else* s work, which they would 
not do if they themselves could help it. The little energy and 
eagerness that crop up shew themselves in cockney cupidity and 
business "push." Even the policemen and the chapels are not 
infrequent enough to break the monotony. The sun is shining 
cheerfully; there is no fog; and though the smoke effectually 
prevents anything, whether faces and hands or bricks and mor- 
tar, from looking fresh and clean, it is not hanging heavily 
enough to trouble a Londoner. 

This desert of unattractiveness has its oasis. Near the 



4 Candida Act I 

outer end of the Hackney Road is a park of 217 acres, fence* 
in, not by railings, but by a wooden paling, and containing 
plenty of greensward, trees, a lake for bathers, flower beds 
with the flowers arranged carefully in patterns by the admired 
cockney art of carpet gardening and a sandpit, imported from the 
seaside for the delight of the children, but speedily deserted on 
its becoming a natural vermin preserve for all the petty fauna 
of Kingsland, Hackney and Hoxton. A bandstand, an unfin- 
ished forum for religious, anti-religious and political orators, 
cricket pitches, a gymnasium, and an old fashioned stone kiosk 
are among its attractions. Wherever the prospect is bounded 
by trees or rising green grounds, it is a pleasant place. Where 
the ground stretches flat to the grey palings, with bricks and 
mortar, sky signs, crowded chimneys and smoke beyond, the 
prospect makes desolate and sordid. 

The best view of Victoria Park is from the front window 
of St. Dominic* s Parsonage, from which not a single chimney 
is visible. The parsonage is a semi-detached villa with a front 
garden and a porch. Visitors go up the flight of steps to the 
porch: tradespeople and members of the family go down by a 
door under the steps to the basement, with a breakfast room, 
used for all meals, in front, and the kitchen at the back. Up- 
stairs, on the level of the hall door, is the drawing-room, with 
its large plate glass window looking on the park. In this room, 
the only sitting-room that can be spared from the children and 
the family meals, the parson, the Reverend James Mavor 
Morell does his work. He is sitting in a strong round backed 
revolving chair at the right hand end of a long table, which 
stands across the window, so that he can cheer himself with the 
view of the park at his elbow. At the opposite end of the table, 
adjoining it, is a little table only half the width of the other, 
with a typewriter on it. His typist is sitting at this machine, 
with her back to the window. The large table is littered with 
pamphlets, journals, letters, nests of drawers, an office diary, 
postage scales and the like. A spare chair for visitors having 



x 



Act I Candida 5 

business with the parson is in the middle, turned to his end. 
Within reach of his hand is a stationery case, and a cabinet 
photograph in a frame. Behind him the right hand wall, 
recessed above the fireplace, is fitted with bookshelves, on which 
an adept eye can measure the parson* s divinity and casuistry 
by a complete set of Browning s poems and Maurice* s Theo- 
logical Essays, and guess at his politics from a yellow backed 
Progress and Poverty, Fabian Essays, a Dream of John Ball, 
Marx* s Capital, and half a dozen other literary landmarks in 
Socialism. Opposite him on the left, near the typewriter, is 
the door. Further down the room, opposite the fireplace, a 
bookcase stands on a cellaret, with a sofa near it. There is 
a generous fire burning; and the hearth, with a comfortable 
armchair and a japanned flower painted coal scuttle at one 
side, a miniature chair for a boy or girl on the other, a nicely 
varnished wooden mantelpiece, with neatly moulded shelves, 
tiny bits of mirror let into the panels, and a travelling clock in 
a leather case (the inevitable wedding present}, and on the 
wall above a large autotype of the chief figure in Titian 9 s 
Virgin of the Assumption, is very inviting. Altogether the 
room is the room of a good housekeeper, vanquished, as far as 
the table is concerned, by an untidy man, but elsewhere mis- 
tress of the situation. The furniture, in its ornamental 
aspect, betrays the style of the advertised "drawing-room 
suite" of the pushing suburban furniture dealer; but there is 
nothing useless or pretentious in the room. The paper and 
panelling are dark, throwing the big cheery window and the 
park outside into strong relief. 

The Reverend James Mavor More 11 is a Christian Social- 
ist clergyman of the Church of England, and an active mem- 
ber of the Guild of St. Matthew and the Christian Social 
Union. A vigorous, genial, popular man of forty, robust and 
goo dlooking, full of energy, with pleasant, hearty, considerate 
manners, and a sound, unaffected voice, which he uses with 
the clean, athletic articulation of a practised orator, and with 



6 Candida Act I 

a wide range and perfect command of expression, He is a 
first rate clergyman, able to say what he likes to whom he 
likes, to lecture people without setting himself up against them, 
to impose his authority on them without humiliating them, and 
to interfere in their business without impertinence. His well 
spring of spiritual enthusiasm and sympathetic emotion has 
never run dry for a moment: he still eats and sleeps heartily 
enough to win the daily battle between exhaustion and recu- 
peration triumphantly. Withal, a great baby, pardonably 
vain of his powers and unconsciously pleased with himself He 
has a healthy complexion, a good forehead, with the brows 
somewhat blunt, and the eyes bright and eager, a mouth 
resolute, but not particularly well cut, and a substantial nose, 
with the mobile, spreading nostrils of the dramatic orator, but, 
like all his features, void of subtlety. 

The typist, Miss Proserpine Garnett, is a brisk little woman 
of about 30, of the lower middle class, neatly but cheaply 
dressed in a black merino skirt and a blouse, rather pert and 
quick of speech, and not very civil in her manner, but sensi- 
tive and affectionate. She is clattering away busily at her 
machine whilst Mor ell opens the last of his mornings letters. 
He realizes its contents with a comic groan of despair. 

proserpine. Another lecture? 

morell. Yes. The Hoxton Freedom Group want me 
to address them on Sunday morning (great emphasis on 
" Sunday," this being the unreasonable part of the business). 
What are they? 

proserpine. Communist Anarchists, I think. 

morell. Just like Anarchists not to know that they can't 
have a parson on Sunday ! Tell them to come to church if 
they want to hear me: it will do them good. Say I can 
only come on Mondays and Thursdays. Have you the 
diary there? 

proserpine (taking up the diary). Yes. 



Act I Candida 7 

morell. Have I any lecture on for next Monday? 

proserpine (referring to diary). Tower Hamlets Radical 
Club. 

morell. Well, Thursday then? 

proserpine. English Land Restoration League. 

morell. What next? 

proserpine. Guild of St. Matthew on Monday. Inde- 
pendent Labor Party, Greenwich Branch, on Thursday. 
Monday, Social-Democratic Federation, Mile End Branch. 
Thursday, first Confirmation class — (Impatiently.} Oh, 
I'd better tell them you can't come. They're only half a 
dozen ignorant and conceited costermongers without five 
shillings between them. 

morell (amused). Ah; but you see they're near relatives 
of mine, Miss Garnett. 

proserpine (staring at him). Relatives of yours! 

morell. Yes: we have the same father — in Heaven. 

proserpine (relieved}. Oh, is that all? 

morell (with a sadness which is a luxury to a man whose 
voice expresses it so finely). Ah, you don't believe it. Every- 
body says it: nobody believes it — nobody. (Briskly, get- 
ting back to business.} Well, well! Come, Miss Proserpine, 
can't you find a date for the costers? What about the 25th?: 
that was vacant the day before yesterday. 

proserpine (referring to diary). Engaged — the Fabian 
Society. 

morell. Bother the Fabian Society! Is the 28th gone, 
too? 

proserpine. City dinner. You're invited to dine with 
the Founder's Company. 

morell. That'll do; I'll go to the Hoxton Group of 
Freedom instead. (She enters the engagement in silence, 
with implacable disparagement of the Hoxton Anarchists in 
every line of her face. Morell bursts open the cover of a 
copy of The Church Reformer, which has come by post, and 



8 Candida Act 1 

glances through Mr. Stewart Hendlam's leader and the Guild 
of St. Matthew news. These proceedings are presently 
enlivened by the appearance of More IP *s curate, the Reverend 
Alexander Mill, a young gentleman gathered by Mor ell from 
the nearest University settlement, whither he had come from 
Oxford to give the east end of London the benefit of his uni- 
versity training. He is a conceitedly well intentioned, enthusi- 
astic, immature person, with nothing positively unbearable 
about him except a habit of speaking with his lips carefully 
closed for half an inch from each corner, a finicking articu- 
lation, and a set of horribly corrupt vowels, notably ow for 
o, this being his chief means of bringing Oxford refinement 
to bear on Hackney vulgarity. Morell, whom he has won 
over by a doglike devotion, looks up indulgently from The 
Church Reformer as he enters, and remarks) Well, Lexy ! 
Late again, as usual. 

lexy. I'm afraid so. I wish I could get up in the 
morning. 

morell (exulting in his own energy). Ha! ha! (Whimsi- 
cally.) Watch and pray, Lexy: watch and pray. 

lexy. I know. (Rising wittily to the occasion.) But how 
can I watch and pray when I am asleep? Isn't that so, 
Miss Prossy? 

proserpine (sharply). Miss Garnett, if you please. 

lexy. I beg your pardon — Miss Garnett. 

proserpine. You've got to do all the work to-day. 

lexy. Why? 

proserpine. Never mind why. It will do you good to 
earn your supper before you eat it, for once in a way, as I 
do. Come: don't dawdle. You should have been off on 
your rounds half an hour ago. 

lexy (perplexed). Is she in earnest, Morell? 

morell (in the highest spirits — his eyes dancing). Yes. 1 
am going to dawdle to-day. 

lexy. You! You don't know how. 



Act I Candida 9 

morell (heartily). Ha! ha! Don't I? I'm going to 
have this day all to myself — or at least the forenoon. My 
wife's coming back: she's due here at 1 1 .4.5. 

lexy (surprised). Coming back already — with the chil- 
dren? I thought they were to stay to the end of the month. 

morell. So they are: she's only coming up for two 
days, to get some flannel things for Jimmy, and to see how 
we're getting on without her. 

lexy (anxiously). But, my dear Morell, if what Jimmy 
and Fluffy had was scarlatina, do you think it wise — 

morell. Scarlatina! — rubbish, German measles. I 
brought it into the house myself from the Py croft Street 
School. A parson is like a doctor, my boy: he must face 
infection as a soldier must face bullets. (He rises and claps 
Lexy on the shoulder.) Catch the measles if you can, Lexy: 
she'll nurse you; and what a piece of luck that will be for 
you! — eh? 

lexy (smiling uneasily). It's so hard to understand you 
about Mrs. Morell — 

morell (tenderly). Ah, my boy, get married — get 
married to a good woman; and then you'll understand. 
That's a foretaste of what will be best in the Kingdom of 
Heaven we are trying to establish on earth. That will cure 
you of dawdling. An honest man feels that he must pay 
Heaven for every hour of happiness with a good spell of 
hard, unselfish work to make others happy. We have no 
more right to consume happiness without producing it than to 
consume wealth without producing it. Get a wife like my 
Candida; and you'll always be in arrear with your repayment. 

(He pats Lexy affectionately on the back, and is leaving the 
room when Lexy calls to him.) 

lexy. Oh, wait a bit: I forgot. (Morell halts and turns 
with the door knob in his hand. ) Your father-in-law is 
coming round to see you. (Morell shuts the door again, with 
a complete change of manner.) 



10 Candida Act I 

morell {surprised and not pleased). Mr. Burgess? 

lexy. Yes. I passed him in the park, arguing with 
somebody. He gave me good day and asked me to let 
you know that he was coming. 

morell (half incredulous). But he hasn't called here for — 
I may almost say for years. Are you sure, Lexy? You're 
not joking, are you? 

lexy {earnestly). No, sir, really. 

morell [thoughtfully). Hm! Time for him to take 
another look at Candida before she grows out of his knowl- 
edge. {He resigns himself to the inevitable , and goes out. 
Lexy looks after him with beaming, foolish worship.) 

lexy. What a good man! What a thorough, loving soul 
he is! 

{He takes MoreW s place at the table y making himself very 
comfortable as he takes out a cigar et.) 

Proserpine {impatiently , pulling the letter she has been 
working at off the typewriter and folding it.) Oh, a man 
ought to be able to be fond of his wife without making a fool 
of himself about her. 

lexy {shocked). Oh, Miss Prossy! 

proserpine {rising busily and coming to the stationery case 
to get an envelope, in which she encloses the letter as she 
speaks). Candida here, and Candida there, and Candida 
everywhere! {She licks the envelope.) It's enough to drive 
anyone out out of their senses {thumping the envelope to 
make it stick) to hear a perfectly commonplace woman raved 
about in that absurd manner merely because she's got good 
hair, and a tolerable figure. 

lexy {with reproachful gravity). I think her extremely 
beautiful, Miss Garnett. {He takes the photograph up; looks 
at it; and adds, with even greater impressiveness) Extremely 
beautiful. How fine her eyes are! 

proserpine. Her eyes are not a bit better than mine — 
now ! {He puts down the photograph and stares austerely at 



Act I Candida 11 

her.) And you know very well that you think me dowdy 
and second rate enough. 

lexy {rising majestically). Heaven forbid that I should 
think of any of God's creatures in such a way! {He moves 
stiffly away from her across the room to the neighbourhood of 
the bookcase.) 

proserpine. Thank you. That's very nice and com- 
forting. 

lexy {saddened by her depravity). I had no idea you had 
any feeling against Mrs. Morell. 

proserpine {indignantly). I have no feeling against her. 
She's very nice, very good-hearted: I'm very fond of her 
and can appreciate her real qualities far better than any man 
can. {He shakes his head sadly and turns to the bookcase, 
looking along the shelves for a volume. She follows him with 
intense pepperiness.) You don't believe me? {He turns and 
faces her. She pounces at him with spitfire energy.) You 
think I'm jealous. Oh, what a profound knowledge of the 
human heart you have, Mr. Lexy Mill! How well you 
know the weaknesses of Woman, don't you? It must be so 
nice to be a man and have a fine penetrating intellect instead 
of mere emotions like us, and to know that the reason we 
don't share your amorous delusions is that we're all jealous 
of one another ! {She abandons him with a toss of her shoul- 
ders, and crosses to the fire to warm her hands.) 

lexy. Ah, if you women only had the same clue to 
Man's strength that you have to his weakness, Miss Prossy, 
there would be no Woman Question. 

proserpine {over her shoulder, as she stoops, holding her 
hands to the blaze). Where did you hear Morell say that? 
You didn't invent it yourself: you're not clever enough. 

lexy. That's quite true. I am not ashamed of owing 
him that, as I owe him so many other spiritual truths. He 
said it at the annual conference of the Women's Liberal Fed- 
eration. Allow me to add that though they didn't appre- 



12 Candida Ad I 

date it, I, a mere man, did. (He turns to the bookcase again, 
hoping that this may leave her crushed.} 

Proserpine (putting her hair straight at the little panel of 
mirror in the mantelpiece}. Well, when you talk to me, give 
me your own ideas, such as they are, and not his. You 
never cut a poorer figure than when you are trying to imi- 
tate him. 

lexy (stung). I try to follow his example, not to imitate 
him. 

proserpine (coming at him again on her way back to her 
work). Yes, you do: you imitate him. Why do you 
tuck your umbrella under your left arm instead of carrying 
it in your hand like anyone else? Why do you walk with 
your chin stuck out before you, hurrying along with that 
eager look in your eyes — you, who never get up before half 
past nine in the morning? Why do you say " knoaledge " 
in church, though you always say " knolledge " in private 
conversation! Bah! do you think I don't know? (She 
goes back to the typewriter.) Here, come and set about your 
work: we've wasted enough time for one morning. Here's a 
copy of the diary for to-day. (She hands him a memorandum.) 

lexy (deeply offended). Thank you. (He takes it and stands 
at the table with his back to her, reading it. She begins to 
transcribe her shorthand notes on the typewriter without 
troubling herself about his feelings. Mr. Burgess enters un- 
announced. He is a man of sixty, made coarse and sordid by 
the compulsory selfishness of petty commerce, and later on soft- 
ened into sluggish bumptiousness by overfeeding and commer- 
cial success. A vulgar, ignorant, guzzling man, offensive and 
contemptuous to people whose labor is cheap, respectful to wealth 
and rank, and quite sincere and without rancour or envy in both 
attitudes. Finding him without talent, the world has offered 
him no decently paid work except ignoble work, and he has 
become in consequence, somewhat hoggish. But he has no sus- 
picion of this himself, and honestly regards his commercial 



Act I Candida 13 

prosperity as the inevitable and socially wholesome triumph of 
the ability, industry, shrewdness and experience in business of 
a man who in private is easygoing, affectionate and humorously 
convivial to a fault. Corporeally, he is a podgy man, with a 
square, clean shaven face and a square beard under his chin; 
dust colored, with a patch of grey in the centre, and small 
watery blue eyes with a plaintively sentimental expression, 
which he transfers easily to his voice by his habit of pompously 
intoning his sentences.} 

burgess {stopping on the threshold, and looking round}. 
They told me Mr. Morell was here. 

Proserpine (rising). He's upstairs. I'll fetch him for 
you. 

burgess {staring boorishly at her). You're not the same 
young lady as hused to typewrite for him? 

PROSERPINE. No. 

burgess (assenting). No: she was young-er. {Miss Gar- 
nett stolidly stares at him; then goes out with great dignity. 
He receives this quite obtusely, and crosses to the hearth-rug, 
where he turns and spreads himself with his back to the fire.) 
Startin' on your rounds, Mr. Mill? 

lexy {folding his paper and pocketing it). Yes: I must be 
off presently. 

burgess (momentously). Don't let me detain you, Mr. 
Mill. What I come about is private between me and 
Mr. Morell. 

lexy (huffily). I have no intention of intruding, I am 
sure, Mr. Burgess. Good morning. 

burgess (patronizingly) . Oh, good morning to you. 
(Morell returns as Lexy is making for the door.) 

morell (to Lexy). Off to work? 

lexy. Yes, sir. 

morell (patting him affectionately on the shoulder). Take 
my silk handkerchief and wrap your throat up. There's a 
cold wind. Away with you. 



14 Candida Act I 

{Lexy brightens up % and goes out.) 

burgess. Spoilin' your curates, as usu'l, James. Good 
mornin'. When I pay a man, an* 'is livin' depen's on 
me, I keep him in his place. 

morell {rather shortly). I always keep my curates in 
their places as my helpers and comrades. If you get as 
much work out of your clerks and warehousemen as I do 
out of my curates, you must be getting rich pretty fast. 
Will you take your old chair? 

{He points with curt authority to the arm chair beside the 
fireplace; then takes the spare chair from the table and sits 
down in front of Burgess.) 

burgess {without moving). Just the same as hever, James! 

morell. When you last called — it was about three years 
ago, I think — you said the same thing a little more frankly. 
Your exact words then were: "Just as big a fool as ever, 
James?'' 

burgess {soothingly). Well, perhaps I did; but {with con- 
ciliatory cheerfulness) I meant no offence by it. A clorgy- 
man is privileged to be a bit of a fool, you know: it's on'y 
becomin' in his profession that he should. Anyhow, I 
come here, not to rake up hold differences, but to let by- 
gones be bygones. {Suddenly becoming very solemn , and ap- 
proaching Morell.) James: three year ago, you done me a 
hill turn. You done me hout of a contrac'; an' when I 
gev you 'arsh words in my nat'ral disappointment, you 
turned my daughrter again me. Well, I've come to act 
the part of a Cherischin. {Offering his hand.) I forgive 
you, James. 

morell {starting up). Confound your impudence! 

burgess {retreating, with almost lachrymose deprecation of 
this treatment). Is that becomin' language for a clorgyman, 
James? — and you so partic'lar, too? 

morell {hotly). No, sir, it is not becoming language for 
a clergyman. I used the wrong word. I should have said 



Act I Candida 15 

damn your impudence: that's what St. Paul, or any honest 
priest would have said to you. Do you think I have for- 
gotten that tender of yours for the contract to supply cloth- 
ing to the workhouse? 

burgess {in a paroxysm of public spirit). I acted in the 
interest of the ratepayers, James. It was the lowest ten- 
der: you can't deny that. 

morell. Yes, the lowest, because you paid worse wages 
than any other employer — starvation wages — aye, worse 
than starvation wages — to the women who made the cloth- 
ing. Your wages would have driven them to the streets to 
keep body and soul together. (Getting angrier and 
angrier.) Those women were my parishioners. I shamed 
the Guardians out of accepting your tender: I shamed the 
ratepayers out of letting them do it: I shamed everybody 
but you. (Boiling over.) How dare you, sir, come here 
and offer to forgive me, and talk about your daughter, and — 

burgess. Easy, James, easy, easy. Don't git hinto a 
fluster about nothink. I've howned I was wrong. 

morell (fuming about). Have you? I didn't hear you. 

burgess. Of course I did. I hown it now. Come: I 
harsk your pardon for the letter I wrote you. Is that 
enough ? 

morell (snapping bis fingers). That' s nothing. Have you 
raised the wages? 

burgess (triumphantly). Yes. 

morell (stopping dead). What! 

burgess (unctuously). I've turned a moddle hemployer. I 
don't hemploy no women now: they're all sacked; and the 
work is done by machinery. Not a man 'as less than six- 
pence a £our; and the skilled 'ands gits the Trade Union 
rate. (Proudly.) What 'ave you to say to me now? 

morell (overwhelmed). Is it possible! Well, there's 
more joy in heaven over one sinner that repenteth — (Going 
to Burgess with an explosion of apologetic cordiality.) My 



16 Candida Act * 

dear Burgess, I most heartily beg your pardon for my hard 
thoughts of you. {Grasps bis band.) And now, don't you 
feel the better for the change? Come, confess, you're 
happier. You look happier. 

burgess {ruefully). Well, p'raps I do. I s' pose I must, 
since you notice it. At all events, I git my contrax 
asseppit (accepted) by the County Council. {Savagely.) 
They dussent 'ave nothink to do with me unless I paid fair 
wages — curse 'em for a parcel o' meddlin' fools! 

morell {dropping bis band, utterly discouraged). So that 
was why you raised the wages! {He sits down moodily.) 

burgess {severely , in spreading, mounting tones). Why 
else should I do it? What does it lead to but drink and 
huppishness in workin' men? {He seats himself magisterially 
in the easy chair.) It's hall very well for you, James: it gits 
you hinto the papers and makes a great man of you; but 
you never think of the 'arm you do, puttin' money into the 
pockets of workin' men that they don't know 'ow to spend, 
and takin' it from people that might be makin' a good huse 
on it. 

morell {with a heavy sigh, speaking with cold politeness). 
What is your business with me this morning? I shall not 
pretend to believe that you are here merely out of family 
sentiment. 

burgess {obstinately). Yes, I ham — just family sentiment 
and nothink else. 

morell {with weary calm). I don't believe you! 

burgess {rising threateningly). Don't say that to me 
again, James Mavor Morell. 

morell {unmoved). I'll say it just as often as may be 
necessary to convince you that it's true. I don't believe 
you. 

burgess {collapsing into an abyss of wounded feeling). Oh, 
well, if you're determined to be unfriendly, I s'pose I'd 
better go. {He moves reluctantly towards the door. Morell 



Act I Candida 17 

makes no sign. He lingers.) I didn't hexpect to find a hun- 
forgivin' spirit in you, James. (Morell still not responding, he 
takes a few more reluctant steps doorwards. Then he comes 
back whining.) We huseter git on well enough, spite of our 
different opinions. Why are you so changed to me? I 
give you my word I come here in pyorr (pure) frenliness, 
not wishin' to be on bad terms with my hown daughter's 
'usban'. Come, James: be a Cheristhin and shake 'ands. 
(He puts his hand sentimentally on More IPs shoulder.) 

morell (looking up at him thoughtfully) . Look here, Bur- 
gess. Do you want to be as welcome here as you were 
before you lost that contract? 

burgess. I do, James. I do — honest. 

morell. Then why don't you behave as you did then? 

burgess (cautiously removing his hand). 'Owd'y'mean? 

morell. I'll tell you. You thought me a young fool 
then. 

burgess (coaxingly). No, I didn't, James. I — 

morell (cutting him short). Yes, you did. And I thought 
you an old scoundrel. 

burgess (most vehemently deprecating this gross self 
accusation on Morell 9 s part). No, you didn't, James. Now 
you do yourself a hinjustice. 

morell. Yes, I did. Well, that did not prevent our 
getting on very well together. God made you what I call 
a scoundrel as he made me what you call a fool. (The 
effect of this observation on Burgess is to remove the keystone 
of his moral arch. He becomes bodily weak, and, with his 
eyes fixed on Morell in a helpless stare, puts out his hand 
apprehensively to balance himself, as if the floor had sud- 
denly sloped under him. Morell proceeds in the same 
tone of quiet conviction.) It was not for me to quarrel with 
his handiwork in the one case more than in the other. So 
long as you come here honestly as a self-respecting, thorough, 
convinced scoundrel, justifying your scoundrelism, and 



18 Candida Act I 

proud of it, you are welcome. But {and now Morel/ 9 s tone 
becomes formidable; and he rises and strikes the back of the 
chair for greater emphasis) I won't have you here snivel- 
ling about being a model employer and a converted man 
when you're only an apostate with your coat turned for the 
sake of a County Council contract. {He nods at him to enforce 
the point; then goes to the hearth-rug, where he takes up a 
comfortably commanding position with his back to the fire, and 
continues) No: I like a man to be true to himself, even in 
wickedness. Come now: either take your hat and go; or 
else sit down and give me a good scoundrelly reason for 
wanting to be friends with me. {Burgess, whose emotions 
have subsided sufficiently to be expressed by a dazed grin, is 
relieved by this concrete proposition. He ponders it for a 
moment , and then, slowly and very modestly, sits down in the 
chair More 11 has just left.) That' s right. Now, out with it. 

burgess {chuckling in spite of himself). Well, you area 
queer bird, James, and no mistake. But {almost enthusias- 
tically) one carnt 'elp likin' you; besides, as I said afore, of 
course one don't take all a clorgyman says seriously, or the 
world couldn't go on. Could it now? {He composes him- 
self for graver discourse, and turning his eyes on More 11 pro- 
ceeds with dull seriousness.) Well, I don't mind tellin' you, 
since it's your wish we should be free with one another, 
that I did think you a bit of a fool once; but I'm beginnin' 
to think that p'r'aps I was be'ind the times a bit. 

morell {delighted). Aha! You're finding that out at 
last, are you? 

burgess {portentously). Yes, times 'as changed mor'n I 
could a believed. Five yorr (year) ago, no sensible man 
would a thought o' takin' up with your ideas. I hused to 
wonder you was let preach at all. Why, I know a clorgy- 
man that 'as bin kep' hout of his job for yorrs by the Bishop 
of London, although the pore feller's not a bit more reli- 
gious than you are. But to-day, if henyone was to offer 



Act I Candida 19 

to bet me a thousan' poun' that you'll end by bein' a bishop 
yourself, I shouldn't venture to take the bet. You and yore 
crew are gettin' hinfluential: I can see that. They'll 'ave 
to give you something someday, if it's only to stop yore 
mouth. You 'ad the right instinc' arter all, James: the 
line you took is the payin' line in the long run fur a man o' 
your sort. 

morell [decisively — offering bis band). Shake hands, 
Burgess. Now you're talking honestly. I don't think 
they'll make me a bishop; but if they do, I'll introduce you to 
the biggest jobbers I can get to come to my dinner parties. 

burgess {who has risen with a sheepish grin and accepted the 
hand of friendship). You will 'ave your joke, James. Our 
quarrel's made up now, isn't it? 

a woman's voice. Say yes, James. 

Startled, they turn quickly and find that Candida has just 
come in, and is looking at them with an amused maternal indul- 
gence which is her characteristic expression. She is a woman 
°f 33 > we H built, well nourished, likely, one guesses, to 
become matronly later on, but now quite at her best, with the 
double charm of youth and motherhood. Her ways are those 
of a woman who has found that she can always manage people 
by engaging their affection, and who does so frankly and 
instinctively without the smallest scruple. So far, she is like 
any other pretty woman who is just clever enough to make the 
most of her sexual attractions for trivially selfish ends; but 
Candida* s serene brow, courageous eyes, and well set mouth 
and chin signify largeness of mind and dignity of character to 
ennoble her cunning in the affections. A wisehearted observer, 
looking at her, would at once guess that whoever had placed 
the Virgin of the Assumption over her hearth did so because 
he fancied some spiritual resemblance between them, and yet 
would not suspect either her husband or herself of any such 
idea, or indeed of any concern with the art of Titian. 

Just now she is in bonnet and mantle, laden with a strapped 



20 Candida Act I 

rug with her umbrella stuck through it, a handbag, and a 
supply of illustrated papers. 

morell (shocked at his remissness). Candida! Why — 
{looks at his watch, and is horrified to find it so late.) My 
darling ! (Hurrying to her and seizing the rug strap, pouring 
forth his remorseful regrets all the time.) I intended to meet 
you at the train. I let the time slip. (Flinging the rug on 
the sofa.) I was so engrossed by — {returning to her) — I 
forgot — oh! (He embraces her with penitent emotion.) 

burgess (a little shamefaced and doubtful of his reception). 
How orr you, Candy? (She, still in More IP s arms, offers 
him her cheek, which he kisses.) James and me is come to 
a unnerstandin' — a honourable unnerstandin'. Am' we, 
James? 

morell (impetuously). Oh, bother your understanding! 
You've kept me late for Candida. (With compassionate 
fervor.) My poor love: how did you manage about the 
luggage ? — how — 

Candida (stopping him and disengaging herself). There, 
there, there. I wasn't alone. Eugene came (Jown yester- 
day; and we traveled up together. 

morell (pleased). Eugene! 

Candida. Yes: he's struggling with my luggage, poor 
boy. Go out, dear, at once; or he will pay for the cab; 
and I don't want that. (Morell hurries out. Candida puts 
down her handbag; then takes off her mantle and bonnet and 
puts them on the sofa with the rug, chatting meanwhile.) 
Well, papa, how are you getting on at home? 

burgess. The 'ouse ain't worth livin' in since you left it, 
Candy. I wish you'd come round and give the gurl a 
talkin' to. Who's this Eugene that's come with you? 

Candida. Oh, Eugene's one of James's discoveries. He 
found him sleeping on the Embankment last June. Haven't 
you noticed our new picture (pointing to the Virgin) ? He 
gave us that. 



Act I Candida 21 

burgess (incredulously). Gam! D' you mean to tell me — 
your ho wn father ! — that cab touts or such like, orf the 
Embankment, buys pictur' s like that? (Severely.) Don't 
deceive me, Candy: it's a 'Igh Church pictur; and James 
chose it hisself. 

Candida. Guess again. Eugene isn't a cab tout. 

burgess. Then wot is he? (Sarcastically.) A nobleman, 
I 'spose. 

Candida (delighted — nodding). Yes. His uncle's a peer — 
a real live earl. 

burgess (not daring to believe such good news). No! 

Candida. Yes. He had a seven day bill for ^55 in his 
pocket when James found him on the Embankment. He 
thought he couldn't get any money for it until the seven 
days were up; and he was too shy to ask for credit. Oh, 
he's a dear boy! We are very fond of him. 

burgess (pretending to belittle the aristocracy, but with his 
eyes gleaming). Hm, I thort you wouldn't git a piorr's 
(peer's) nevvy visitin' in Victoria Park unless he were a bit 
of a flat. {Looking again at the picture.) Of course I don't 
'old with that pictur, Candy; but still it's a 'igh class, fust 
rate work of art: I can see that. Be sure you hintroduce 
me to him, Candy. (He looks at his watch anxiously.) I 
can only stay about two minutes. 

More II comes back with Eugene, whom Burgess con tern- 
plates moist-eyed with enthusiasm. He is a strange, shy youth 
of eighteen, slight, effeminate, with a delicate childish voice, and 
a hunted, tormented expression and shrinking manner that shew 
the painful sensitiveness that very swift and acute apprehensive- 
ness produces in youth, before the character has grown to its 
full strength. Tet everything that his timidity and frailty 
suggests is contradicted by his face. He is miserably irresolute, 
does not know where to stand or what to do with his hands and 
feet, is afraid of Burgess, and would run away into solitude if 
be dared; but the very intensity with which he feels a perfectly 



22 Candida Act I 

commonplace position shews great nervous force, and his nostril 
and mouth shew a fiercely petulant wilfulness, as to the quality 
of which his great imaginative eyes and fine brow are reassuring. 
He is so entirely uncommon as to be almost unearthly; and to 
prosaic people there is something noxious in this unearthliness, 
just as to poetic people there is something angelic in it. His 
dress is anarchic. He wears an old blue serge jacket, unbut- 
toned over a woollen lawn tennis shirt, with a silk handkerchief 
for a cravat, trousers matching the jacket, and brown canvas 
shoes. In these garments he has apparently lain in the heather 
and waded through the waters; but there is no evidence of his 
having ever brushed them. 

As he catches sight of a stranger on entering, he stops, and 
edges along the wall on the opposite side of the room. 

morell (as he enters). Come along: you can spare us 
quarter of an hour, at all events. This is my father-in-law, 
Mr. Burgess — Mr. Marchbanks. 

marchbanks (nervously backing against the bookcase). Glad 
to meet you, sir. 

burgess {crossing to him with great heartiness, whilst 
Morell joins Candida at the fire). Glad to meet you, Pm 
shore, Mr. Morchbanks. {Forcing him to shake hands.) 
'Ow do you find yoreself this weather? 'Ope you ain't 
lettin' James put no foolish ideas into your 'ed? 

marchbanks. Foolish ideas! Oh, you mean Socialism. 
No. 

burgess. That's right. (Again looking at his watch.) 
Well, I must go now: there's no 'elp for it. Yo're not 
comin' my way, are you, Mr. Morchbanks? 

marchbanks. Which way is that? 

burgess. Victawriar Pork Station. There's a city train 
at 12:25. 

morell. Nonsense. Eugene will stay to lunch with us, 
I expect. 

marchbanks (anxiously excusing himself). No — I — I — 



Act I Candida 23 

burgess. Well, well, I shan't press you: I bet you'd 
rather lunch with Candy. Some night, I 'ope, you'll come 
and dine with me at my club, the Freeman Founders in 
Nortn Folgit. Come, say you will. 

marchbanks. Thank you, Mr. Burgess. Where is 
Norton Folgate — down in Surrey, isn't it? (Burgess, inex- 
pressibly tickled, begins to splutter with laughter.} 

Candida (coming to the rescue). You'll lose your train, 
papa, if you don't go at once. Come back in the afternoon 
and tell Mr. Marchbanks where to find the club. 

burgess (roaring with glee). Down in Surrey — har, har! 
that's not a bad one. Well, I never met a man as didn't 
know Nortn Folgit before. (Abashed at his own noisiness.) 
Good-bye, Mr. Morchbanks: I know yo're too 'ighbredto 
take my pleasantry in bad part. (He again offers his hand.) 

marchbanks (taking it with a nervous jerk). Not at all. 

burgess. Bye, bye, Candy. I'll look in again later on. 
So long, James. 

MORELL. Must yOU gO? 

burgess. Don't stir. (He goes out with unabated hearti- 
ness.) 

morell. Oh, I'll see you out. (He follows him out. 
Eugene stares after them apprehensively, holding his breath 
until Burgess disappears.) 

Candida (laughing). Well, Eugene. (He turns with a 
start and comes eagerly towards her, but stops irresolutely as he 
meets her amused look.) What do you think of my father? 

marchbanks. I — I hardly know him yet. He seems to 
be a very nice old gentleman. 

Candida (with gentle irony). And you'll go to the Free- 
man Founders to dine with him, won't you? 

marchbanks (miserably, taking it quite seriously). Yes, if 
it will please you. 

Candida (touched). Do you know, you are a very nice 
boy, Eugene, wirh all your queerness. If you had laughed 



24 Candida Act I 

at my father I shouldn't have minded; but I like you ever so 
much better for being nice to him. 

marchbanks. Ought I to have laughed? I noticed that 
he said something funny; but I am so ill at ease with 
strangers; and I never can see a joke! I'm very sorry.- 
(He sits down on the sofa, bis elbows on his knees and his 
temples between his fists, with an expression of hopeless suffer- 
ing.) 

Candida (bustling him goodnaturedly). Oh, come! You 
great baby, you! You are worse than usual this morning. 
Why were you so melancholy as we came along in the 
cab? 

marchbanks. Oh, that was nothing. I was wondering 
how much I ought to give the cabman. I know it's 
utterly silly; but you don't know how dreadful such things 
are to me — how I shrink from having to deal with 
strange people. (Quickly and reassuringly.) But it's all 
right. He beamed all over and touched his hat when 
Morell gave him two shillings. I was on the point of 
offering him ten. (Candida laughs heartily. Morell comes 
back with a few letters and newspapers which have come by 
the midday post.) 

Candida. Oh, James, dear, he was going to give the cab- 
man ten shillings — ten shillings for a three minutes' drive — 
oh, dear! 

morell (at the table, glancing through the letters) . Never 
mind her, Marchbanks. The overpaying instinct is a gen- 
erous one: better than the underpaying instinct, and not so 
common. 

marchbanks (relapsing into dejection). No: coward- 
ice, incompetence. Mrs. Morell' s quite right. 

Candida. Of course she is. (She takes up her handbag.) 
And now I must leave you to James for the present. I 
suppose you are too much of a poet to know the state a 
woman finds her house in when she's been away for three 



Act I Candida 25 

weeks. Give me my rug. (Eugene takes the strapped rug 
from the couch, and gives it to her. She takes it in her left 
hand y having the bag in her right.} Now hang my" cloak 
across my arm. (He obeys.} Now my hat. (He puts it 
into the hand which has the bag.} Now open the door for 
me. (He hurries up before her and opens the door.} Thanks. 
(She goes out; and Marchbanks shuts the door.) 

morell (still busy at the table}. You'll stay to lunch, 
Marchbanks, of course. 

marchbanks (scared}. I mustn't. (He glances quickly at 
Morell, but at once avoids his frank look, and adds, with ob- 
vious disingenuousness) I can't. 

morell (over his shoulder). You mean you won't. 

marchbanks (earnestly). No: I should like to, indeed. 
Thank you very much. But — but— 

morell (breezily, finishing with the letters and coming 
close to him). But — but — but — but — bosh! If you'd like 
to stay, stay. You don't mean to persuade me you have 
anything else to do. If you're shy, go and take a turn in 
the park and write poetry until half past one; and then 
come in and have a good feed. 

marchbanks. Thank you, I should like that very much. 
But I really mustn't. The truth is, Mrs. Morell told me 
not to. She said she didn't think you'd ask me to stay to 
lunch, but that I was to remember, if you did, that you 
didn't really want me to. (Plaintively.) She said I'd un- 
derstand; but I don't. Please don't tell her I told you. 

morell (drolly). Oh, is that all? Won't my suggestion 
that you should take a turn in the park meet the difficulty? 

MARCHBANKS. How? 

morell (exploding good-humor edly). Why, you duffer — 
(But this boisterousness jars himself as well as Eugene. He 
checks himself, and resumes, with affectionate seriousness) No: 
I won't put it in that way. My dear lad: in a happy 
marriage like ours, there is something very sacred in the 



26 Candida Act 1 

return of the wife to her home. [Marchbanks looks quickly 
at him, half anticipating his meaning.} An old friend or a 
truly noble and sympathetic soul is not in the way on such 
occasions; but a chance visitor is. (The bunted, horror- 
stricken expression comes out with sudden vividness in Eugene 9 s 
face as he understands. Morell, occupied with his own 
thought , goes on without noticing it.) Candida thought I 
would rather not have you here; but she was wrong. I'm 
very fond of you, my boy, and I should like you to see for 
yourself what a happy thing it is to be married as I am. 

marchbanks. Happy! — your marriage! You think 
that! You believe that! 

morell [buoyantly). I know it, my lad. La Rochefoucauld 
said that there are convenient marriages, but no delightful 
ones. You don't know the comfort of seeing through and 
through a thundering liar and rotten cynic like that fellow. 
Ha, ha! Now off with you to the park, and write your 
poem. Half past one, sharp, mind: we never wait for 
anybody. 

marchbanks (wildly). No: stop: you shan't. I'll force 
it into the light. 

morell (puzzled). Eh? Force what? 

marchbanks. I must speak to you. There is something 
that must be settled between us. 

morell (with a whimsical glance at the clock). Now? 

marchbanks [passionately). Now. Before you leave this 
room. (He retreats a few steps, and stands as if to bar Mor- 
ell 9 s way to the door.) 

morell (without moving, and gravely, perceiving now that 
there is something serious the matter). I'm not going to leave 
it, my dear boy: I thought you were. (Eugene, baffled by 
his firm tone, turns his back on him, writhing with anger. 
Morell goes to him and puts his hand on his shoulder strongly 
and kindly, disregarding his attempt to shake it off.) Come: 
sit down quietly; and tell me what it is. And remember; 



Act I Candida 27 

we are friends, and need not fear that either of us will be 
anything but patient and kind to the other, whatever we 
may have to say. 

marchbanks (twisting himself round on him). Oh, I am 
not forgetting myself: I am only (covering his face desperately 
with his hands) full of horror. (Then, dropping his hands , 
and thrusting his face forward fiercely at More 11, he goes on 
threateningly.) You shall see whether this is a time for 
patience and kindness. (Morell, firm as a rock, looks indul- 
gently at him.) Don't look at me in that self-complacent 
way. You think yourself stronger than I am; but I shall 
stagger you if you have a heart in your breast. 

morell (powerfully confident). Stagger me, my boy. 
Out with it. 

MARCHBANKS. First 

morell. First ? 

marchbanks. I love your wife. 

(Morell recoils, and, after staring at him for a moment in 
utter amazement, bursts into uncontrollable laughter. Eugene 
is taken aback, but not disconcerted; and he soon becomes in- 
dignant and contemptuous.) 

morell (sitting down to have his laugh out). Why, my 
dear child, of course you do. Everybody loves her: they 
can't help it. I like it. But (looking up whimsically at him) 
I say, Eugene: do you think yours is a case to be talked 
about? You're under twenty: she's over thirty. Doesn't 
it look rather too like a case of calf love? 

marchbanks (vehemently) . You dare say that of her ! You 
think that way of the love she inspires ! It is an insult to her ! 

morell (rising quickly, in an altered tone). To her! Eugene: 
take care. I have been patient. I hope to remain patient. 
But there are some things I won't allow. Don't force me 
to shew you the indulgence I should shew to a child. Be 
a man. 

marchbanks (with a gesture as if sweeping something be- 



28 Candida Act I 

bind him). Oh, let us put aside all that cant. It horrifies 
me when I think of the doses of it she has had to endure in 
all the weary years during which you have selfishly and 
blindly sacrificed her to minister to your self-sufficiency- — 
you {turning on him) who have not one thought — one 
sense — in common with her. 

morell {philosophically). She seems to bear it pretty well, 
{Looking him straight in the face.) Eugene, my boy: you 
are making a fool of yourself — a very great fool of yourself. 
There's a piece of wholesome plain speaking for you. 

marchbanks. Oh, do you think I don't know all that? 
Do you think that the things people make fools of them- 
selves about are any less real and true than the things they 
behave sensibly about? {Morel? s gaze wavers for the first 
time. He instinctively averts his face and stands listening, 
startled and thoughtful.) They are more true: they are the 
only things that are true. You are very calm and sensible 
and moderate with me because you can see that I am a fool 
about your wife; just as no doubt that old man who was 
here just now is very wise over your socialism, because he 
sees that you are a fool about it. {More IP s perplexity 
deepens markedly. Eugene follows up his advantage , plying 
him fiercely with questions.) Does that prove you wrong? 
Does your complacent superiority to me prove that / am 
wrong? 

morell {turning on Eugene, who stands his ground). 
Marchbanks: some devil is putting these words into your 
mouth. It is easy — terribly easy — to shake a man's faith 
in himself. To take advantage of that to break a man's 
spirit is devil's work. Take care of what you are doing. 
Take care. 

marchbanks (ruthlessly). I know. I'm doing it on 
purpose. I told you I should stagger you. 

(They confront one another threateningly for a moment. 
Then Morell recovers his dignity.) 



Act I Candida 29 

morell {with noble tenderness). Eugene: listen to me. 
Some day, I hope and trust, you will be a happy man like 
me. {Eugene chafes intolerantly, repudiating the worth of his 
happiness. Morell, deeply insulted, controls himself with fine 
forbearance, and continues steadily, with great artistic beauty 
of delivery) You will be married; and you will be working 
with all your might and valor to make every spot on earth 
as happy as your own home. You will be one of the 
makers of the Kingdom of Heaven on earth; and — who 
knows? — you may be a pioneer and master builder where I 
am only a humble journeyman; for don't think, my boy, 
that I cannot see in you, young as you are, promise of higher 
powers than I can ever pretend to. I well know that it is 
in the poet that the holy spirit of man — the god within him 
— is most godlike. It should make you tremble to think of 
that — to think that the heavy burthen and great gift of a 
poet may be laid upon you. 

marchbanks (unimpressed and remorseless, his boyish crud- 
ity of assertion telling sharply against More IPs oratory). It 
does not make me tremble. It is the want of it in others 
that makes me tremble. 

morell (redoubling his force of style under the stimulus of 
his genuine feeling and Eugene'' s obduracy). Then help to 
kindle it in them — in me — not to extinguish it. In the 
future — when you are as happy as I am — I will be your 
true brother in the faith. I will help you to believe that 
God has given us a world that nothing but our own folly 
keeps from being a paradise. I will help you to believe that 
every stroke of your work is sowing happiness for the great 
harvest that all — even the humblest — shall one day reap. 
And last, but trust me, not least, I will help you to 
believe that your wife loves you and is happy in her home. 
We need such help, Marchbanks: we need it greatly and 
always. There are so many things to make us doubt, if 
once we let our understanding be troubled. Even at home, 



30 Candida Act I 

we sit as if in camp, encompassed by a hostile army of 
doubts. Will you play the traitor and let them in on 
me? 

marchbanks {looking round him). Is it like this for her 
here always? A woman, with a great soul, craving for 
reality, truth, freedom, and being fed on metaphors, ser- 
mons, stale perorations, mere rhetoric. Do you think a 
woman's soul can live on your talent for preaching? 

morell {stung). Marchbanks: you make it hard for me to 
control myself. My talent is like yours insofar as it has 
any real worth at all. It is the gift of finding words for 
divine truth. 

marchbanks {impetuously). It's the gift of the gab, noth- 
ing more and nothing less. What has your knack of fine 
talking to do with the truth, any more than playing the 
organ has? I've never been in your church; but I've been 
to your political meetings; and I've seen you do what's 
called rousing the meeting to enthusiasm: that is, you 
excited them until they behaved exactly as if they were 
drunk. And their wives looked on and saw clearly enough 
what fools they were. Oh, it's an old story: you'll find it 
in the Bible. I imagine King David, in his fits of enthusi- 
asm, was very like you. {Stabbing him with the words.} 
"But his wife despised him in her heart." 

morell {wrathfully). Leave my house. Do you hear? 
{He advances on him threateningly.} 

marchbanks (shrinking back against the couch). Let me 
alone. Don't touch me. {Morell grasps him powerfully by 
the lappell of his coat: he cowers down on the sofa and screams 
passionately.} Stop, Morell, if you strike me, I'll kill my- 
self: I won't bear it. {Almost in hysterics.) Let me go. 
Take your hand away. 

morell {with slow, emphatic scorn). You little snivelling, 
cowardly whelp. {Releasing him.) Go, before you frighten 
yourself into a fit. 



Act I Candida 31 

marchbanks {on the sof a, gasping, but relieved by the with- 
drawal of More ll y s hand). I'm not afraid of you: it's you 
who are afraid of me. 

morell {quietly, as he stands over him). It looks like it, 
doesn't it? 

marchbanks {with petulant vehemence). Yes, it does. 
{Morell turns away contemptuously. Eugene scrambles to his 
feet and follows him.) You think because I shrink from 
being brutally handled — because {with tears in his voice) I 
can do nothing but cry with rage when I am met with vio- 
lence — because I can't lift a heavy trunk down from the 
top of a cab like you — because I can't fight you for your 
wife as a navvy would: all that makes you think that I'm 
afraid of you. But you're wrong. If I haven't got what 
you call British pluck, I haven't British cowardice either: 
I'm not afraid of a clergyman's ideas. I'll fight your ideas. 
I'll rescue her from her slavery to them: I'll pit my own 
ideas against them. You are driving me out of the house 
because you daren't let her choose between your ideas and 
mine. You are afraid to let me see her again. {Morell, 
angered, turns suddenly on him. He flies to the door in 
involuntary dread.) Let me alone, I say. I'm going. 

morell {with cold scorn). Wait a moment: I am not 
going to touch you: don't be afraid. When my wife comes 
back she will want to know why you have gone. And 
when she finds that you are never going to cross our thresh- 
old again, she will want to have that explained, too. Now 
I don't wish to distress her by telling her that you have 
behaved like a blackguard. 

marchbanks {coming back with renewed vehemence). You 
shall — you must. If you give any explanation but the true 
one, you are a liar and a coward. Tell her what I said; 
and how you were strong and manly, and shook me as a 
terrier shakes a rat; and how I shrank and was terrified; 
and how you called me a snivelling little whelp and put me 



32 Candida Act I 

out of the house. If you don't tell her, I will: PU write 
it to her. 

morell (taken aback). Why do you want her to know 
this? 

marchbanks (with lyric rapture). Because she will under- 
stand me, and know that I understand her. If you keep 
back one word of it from her — if you are not ready to lay 
the truth at her feet as I am — then you will know to the 
end of your days that she really belongs to me and not to 
you. Good-bye. {Going.) 

morell {terribly disquieted). Stop: I will not tell her. 

marchbanks (turning near the door). Either the truth or a 
lie you must tell her, if I go. 

morell (temporizing). Marchbanks: it is sometimes jus- 
tifiable. 

marchbanks (cutting him short). I know — to lie. It will 
be useless. Good-bye, Mr. Clergyman. 

(As he turns finally to the door, it opens and Candida enters 
in housekeeping attire.) 

Candida. Are you going, Eugene? (Looking more observ- 
antly at him.) Well, dear me, just look at you, going out 
into the street in that state ! You area poet, certainly. 
Look at him, James ! (She takes him by the coat, and brings 
him forward to show him to Morell.) Look at his collar! 
look at his tie! look at his hair! One would think some- 
body had been throttling you. (The two men guard them- 
selves against betraying their consciousness.) Here! Stand 
still. (She buttons his collar; ties his neckerchief in a bow; 
and arranges his hair.) There! Now you look so nice 
that I think you'd better stay to lunch after all, though I 
told you you mustn't. It will be ready in half an hour. 
(She puts a final touch to the bow. He kisses her hand. 
Don't be silly. 

marchbanks. I want to stay, of course — unless the rev- 



Act I Candida 33 

erend gentleman, your husband, has anything to advance to 
the contrary. 

Candida. Shall he stay, James, if he promises to be a good 
boy and to help me to lay the table? {March banks turns his 
head and looks steadfastly at Morell over his shoulder , chal- 
lenging his answer,") 

morell (shortly). Oh, yes, certainly: he had better. (He 
goes to the table and pretends to busy himself with his papers 
there.) 

marchbanks (offering his arm to Candida). Come and 
lay the table. ( She takes it and they go to the door together* 
As they go out he adds) I am the happiest of men. 

morell. So was I — an hour ago. 



ACT II 

The same day. The same room. Late in the afternoon. 
The spare chair for visitors has been replaced at the table , 
which is, if possible, more untidy than before. Marchbanks, 
alone and idle, is trying to find out how the typewriter works. 
Hearing someone at the door, he steals guiltily away to the 
window and pretends to be absorbed in the view. Miss Gar- 
nett, carrying the notebook in which she takes down More IPs 
letters in shorthand from his dictation, sits down at the type- 
writer and sets to work transcribing them, much too busy to 
notice Eugene. Unfortunately the first key she strikes sticks. 

proserpine. Bother! You've been medling with my 
typewriter, Mr. Marchbanks; and there's not the least use 
in your trying to look as if you hadn't. 

marchbanks (timidly). I'm very sorry, Miss Garnett. I 
only tried to make it write. 

proserpine. Well, you've made this key stick. 

marchbanks {earnestly). I assure you I didn't touch the 
keys. I didn't, indeed. I only turned a little wheel. {He 
points irresolutely at the tension wheel.) 

proserpine. Oh, now I understand. {She sets the 
machine to rights, talking volubly all the time.) I suppose 
you thought it was a sort of barrel-organ. Nothing to do 
but turn the handle, and it would write a beautiful love 
letter for you straight off, eh? 

marchbanks {seriously). I suppose a machine could be 
made to write love-letters. They're all the same, aren't they? 



Act II Candida 35 

proserpine {somewhat indignantly: any such discussion, 
except by way of pleasantry, being outside her code of man- 
ners). How do I know? Why do you ask me? 

marchbanks. I beg your pardon. I thought clever peo- 
ple — people who can do business and write letters, and that 
sort of thing — always had love affairs. 

proserpine (rising, outraged). Mr. Marchbanks! (She 
looks severely at him, and marches with much dignity to the 
bookcase.) 

marchbanks (approaching her humbly). I hope I haven't 
offended you. Perhaps I shouldn't have alluded to your 
love affairs. 

proserpine (plucking a blue book from the shelf and turn- 
ing sharply on him). I haven't any love affairs. How dare 
you say such a thing? 

marchbanks (simply). Really! Oh, then you are shy, 
like me. Isn't that so? 

proserpine. Certainly I am not shy. What do you 
mean? 

marchbanks (secretly). You must be: that is the reason 
there are so few love affairs in the world. We all go about 
longing for love: it is the first need of our natures, the 
loudest cry of our hearts; but we dare not utter our long- 
ing: we are too shy. (Very earnestly.) Oh, Miss Gar- 
nett, what would you not give to be without fear, without 
shame — 

proserpine (scandalized). Well, upon my word! 

marchbanks (with petulant impatience). Ah, don't say 
those stupid things to me: they don't deceive me: what 
use are they? Why are you afraid to be your real self with 
me? I am just like you. 

proserpine. Like me! Pray, are you flattering me or 
flattering yourself? I don't feel quite sure which. (She 
turns to go back to the typewriter. ) 

marchbanks (stopping her mysteriously). Hush! I go 



36 Candida Act II 

about in search of love; and I find it in unmeasured stores 
in the bosoms of others. But when I try to ask for it, this 
horrible shyness strangles me; and I stand dumb, or worse 
than dumb, saying meaningless things — foolish lies. And I 
see the affection I am longing for given to dogs and cats 
and pet birds, because they come and ask for it. {Almost 
whispering.') It must be asked for: it is like a ghost: it 
cannot speak unless it is first spoken to. {At his normal 
pitchy but with deep melancholy.) All the love in the world 
is longing to speak; only it dare not, because it is shy, shy, 
shy. That is the world's tragedy. {With a deep sigh he 
sits in the spare chair and buries his face in his hands.) 

proserpine {amazed, but keeping her wits about her — 
her point of honor in encounters with strange young men). 
Wicked people get over that shyness occasionally, don't 
they? 

marchbanks {scrambling up almost fiercely). Wicked peo- 
ple means people who have no love: therefore they have no 
shame. They have the power to ask love because they 
don't need it: they have the power to offer it because they 
have none to 1 give. {He collapses into his seat, and adds, 
mournfully) But we, who have love, and long to mingle 
it with the love of others: we cannot utter a word. {Tim- 
idly.) You find that, don't you? 

proserpine. Look here: if you don't stop talking like 
this, I'll leave the room, Mr. Marchbanks: I really will. 
It's not proper. 

{She resumes her seat at the typewriter, opening the blue 
book and preparing to copy a passage from it.) 

marchbanks {hopelessly). Nothing that's worth saying is 
proper. {He rises, and wanders about the room in his lost 
way, saying) I can't understand you, Miss Garnett. What 
am I to talk about? 

proserpine {snubbing him). Talk about indifferent 
things. Talk about the weather. 



Act II Candida 37 

marchbanks. Would you stand and talk about indifferent 
things if a child were by, crying bitterly with hunger. 

proserpine. I suppose not. 

marchbanks. Well: / can't talk about indifferent things 
with my heart crying out bitterly in i t s hunger. 

proserpine. Then hold your tongue. 

marchbanks. Yes: that is what it always comes to. We 
hold our tongues. Does that stop the cry of your heart? — 
for it does cry: doesn't it? It must, if you have a heart. 

proserpine (suddenly rising with her hand pressed on her 
heart). Oh, it's no use trying to work while you talk like 
that. {She leaves her little table and sits on the sofa. Her 
feelings are evidently strongly worked on?) It's no business of 
yours, whether my heart cries or not; but I have a mind 
to tell you, for all that. 

marchbanks. You needn't. I know already that it must. 

proserpine. But mind: if you ever say 1 said so, I'll 
deny it. 

marchbanks (compassionately). Yes, I know. And so 
you haven't the courage to tell him? 

proserpine (bouncing up). Him! Who? 

marchbanks. Whoever he is. The man you love. It 
might be anybody. The curate, Mr. Mill, perhaps. 

proserpine (with disdain). Mr. Mill!!! A fine man to 
break my heart about, indeed! I'd rather have you than 
Mr. Mill. 

marchbanks (recoiling). No, really — I'm very sorry; but 
you mustn't think of that. I — 

proserpine (testily », crossing to the fire and standing at it 
with her back to him). Oh, don't be frightened: it's not 
you. It's not any one particular person. 

marchbanks. I know. You feel that you could love 
anybody that offered — 

proserpine (exasperated). Anybody that offered! No, I 
do not. What do you take me for? 



L 






38 Candida Act II 

marchbanks (discouraged). No use. You won't make 
me real answers — only those things that everybody says. 
(He strays to the sofa and sits down disconsolately. ) 
/^proserpine (nettled at what she takes to be a disparage- 
ment of her manners by an aristocrat). Oh, well, if you 
want original conversation, you'd better go and talk to your- 
self. 

marchbanks. That is what all poets do: they talk to 
themselves out loud; and the world overhears them. 
But it's horribly lonely not to hear someone else talk some- 
times. 

Proserpine. Wait until Mr. Morell comes. He'll talk 
to you. (Marchbanks shudders.) Oh, you needn't make 
wry faces over him: he can talk better than you. (With 
temper.) He'd talk your little head off. (She is going back 
angrily to her place, when, suddenly enlightened, he springs up 
and stops her.) 

marchbanks. Ah, I understand now! 

proserpine (reddening). What do you understand? 

marchbanks. Your secret. Tell me: is it really and 
truly possible for a woman to love him? 

proserpine (as if this were beyond all bounds). Well ! ! 

marchbanks (passionately ). No, answer me. I want to 
know: I must know. / can't understand it. I can see 
nothing in him but words, pious resolutions, what people 
call goodness. You can't love that. 

proserpine (attempting to snub him by an air of cool pro- 
priety). I simply don't know what you're talking about. I 
don't understand you. 

marchbanks (vehemently). You do. You lie — 

proserpine. Oh ! 

marchbanks. You d o understand; and you kno w. (De- 
termined to have an answer.) Is it possible for a woman to 
love him? 

proserpine (looking him straight in the face). Yes. (He 



Act II Candida 39 

covers bis face with bis bands.) Whatever is the matter with 
you! (He takes down bis bands and looks at ber. Frightened 
at the tragic mask presented to her, she hurries past him at 
the utmost possible distance, keeping her eyes on his face until 
he turns from her and goes to the child's chair beside the 
hearth, where he sits in the deepest dejection. As she ap- 
proaches the door, it opens and Burgess enters. On seeing 
him, she ejaculates) Praise heaven, here's somebody ! (and sits 
down, reassured, at her table. She puts a fresh sheet of 
paper into the typewriter as Burgess crosses to Eugene.) 

burgess (bent on taking care of the distingished visitor). 
Well: so this is the way they leave you to yourself, Mr. 
Morchbanks. I've come to keep you company. (March- 
banks looks up at him in consternation, which is quite lost on 
him.) James is receivin' a deppitation in the dinin' room; 
and Candy is hupstairs educatin' of a young stitcher gurl 
she's hinterusted in. She's settin' there learnin' her to read 
out of the "'Ev'nly Twins." (Con do ling ly.) You must 
find it lonesome here with no one but the typist to talk to. 
(He pulls round the easy chair above fire, and sits down.) 

proserpine (highly incensed). He'll be all right now that 
he has the advantage of your polished conversation: that's 
one comfort, anyhow. (She begins to typewrite with clatter- 
ing asperity.) 

burgess (amazed at her audacity). Hi was not addressin' 
myself to you, young woman, that I'm awerr of. 

proserpine (tartly, to Marchbanks). Did you ever see 
worse manners, Mr. Marchbanks? 

burgess (with pompous severity). Mr. Morchbanks is a 
gentleman and knows his place, which is more than some 
people do. 

proserpine (fretfully). It's well you and I are not ladies 
and gentlemen: I'd talk to you pretty straight if Mr. March- 
banks wasn't here. (She pulls the letter out of the machine 
so crossly that it tears.) There, now I've spoiled this letter 



40 Candida Act II 

— have to be done all over again. Oh, I can't contain 
myself — silly old fathead! 

burgess {rising y breathless with indignation). Ho! I'm 
a silly ole fat'ead, am I? Ho, indeed {gasping). Hall right, 
my gurl! Hall right. You just wait till I tell that to your 
employer. You'll see. I'll teach you: see if I don't. 

PROSERPINE. I 

burgess {cutting her short). No, you've done it now. 
No huse a-talkin' to me. I'll let you know who I am. 
{Proserpine shifts her paper carriage with a defiant bang, and 
disdainfully goes on with her work.) Don't you take no 
notice of her, Mr. Morchbanks. She's beneath it. (He 
sits down again loftily.) 

marchbanks (miserably nervous and disconcerted). Hadn't 
we better change the subject. I — I don't think Miss Gar- 
nett meant anything. 

proserpine (with intense conviction). Oh, didn't I though, 
just! 

burgess. I wouldn't demean myself to take notice on her. 

{An electric bellringj twice.) 

proserpine (gathering up her note-book and papers). 
That's for me. (She hurries out.) 

burgess (calling after her). Oh, we can spare you. 
(Somewhat relieved by the triumph of having the last 
word, and yet half inclined to try to improve on it, he looks 
after her for a moment; then subsides into his seat by Eugene, 
and addresses him very confidentially.) Now we're alone, 
Mr. Morchbanks, let me give you a friendly 'int that I 
wouldn't give to everybody. 'Ow long 'ave you known 
my son-in-law James here? 

marchbanks. I don't know. I never can remember 
dates. A few months, perhaps. 

burgess. Ever notice anything queer about him? 

marchbanks, I don't think so. 



Act II Candida 41 

burgess (impressively). No more you wouldn't. That's 
the danger in it. Well, he's mad. 

MARCHBANKS. Mad! 

burgess. Mad as a Morch 'are. You take notice on 
him and you'll see. 

marchbanks (beginning). But surely that is only because 
his opinions — 

burgess (touching him with his forefinger on his knee, and 
pressing it as if to hold his attention with it). That's wot I 
used ter think, Mr. Morchbanks. H i thought long enough 
that it was honly 'is opinions; though, mind you, hopinions 
becomes vurry serious things when people takes to hactin on 
'em as 'e does. But that's not wot I go on. (He looks 
round to make sure that they are alone, and bends over to 
Eugene 9 s ear.) Wot do you think he says to me this morn- 
in' in this very room? 

marchbanks. What? 

burgess. He sez to me — this is as sure as we're settin' 
here now — he sez: " I'm a fool," he sez; "and yore a 
scounderl " — as cool as possible. Me a scounderl, mind 
you! And then shook 'ands with me on it, as if it was to 
my credit! Do you mean to tell me that that man's sane? 

morell (outside, calling to Proserpine, holding the door 
open). Get all their names and addresses, Miss Garnett. 

proserpine (in the distance). Yes, Mr. Morell. 

(Morell comes in, with the deputation 9 s documents in his 
hands.) 

burgess (aside to Marchbanks). Yorr he is. Just you 
keep your heye on him and see. (Rising momentously.) I'm 
sorry, James, to 'ave to make a complaint to you. I don't 
want to do it; but I feel I oughter, as a matter o' right and 
dooty. 

morell. What's the matter. 

burgess. Mr. Morchbanks will bear me out: he was a 



42 Candida Act II 

witness. (Very solemnly.} Your young woman so far forgot 
herself as to call me a silly ole fat'ead. 

morell (delighted — with tremendous heartiness). Oh, now, 
isn't that exactly like Prossy? She's so frank: she can't 
contain herself ! Poor Prossy ! Ha ! Ha ! 

burgess (trembling with rage). And do you hexpec me to 
put up with it from the like of 'er? 

morell. Pooh, nonsense! you can't take any notice of 
it. Never mind. (He goes to the cellaret and puts the 
papers into one of the drawers.) 

burgess. Oh, / don't mind. I'm above it. But is it 
right ? — that's what I want to know. Is it right? 

morell. That's a question for the Church, not for the 
laity. Has it done you any harm, that's the question for 
you, eh? Of course, it hasn't. Think no more of it. (He 
dismisses the subject by going to his place at the table and set- 
ing to work at his correspondence.) 

burgess (aside to Marchbanks). What did I tell you? 
Mad as a 'atter. (He goes to the table and asks, with the 
sickly civility of a hungry man) When's dinner, James? 

morell. Not for half an hour yet. 

burgess (with plaintive resignation) . Gimme a nice book 
to read over the fire, will you, James: thur's a good chap. 

morell. What sort of book? A good one? 

burgess (with almost a yell of remonstrance). Nah-oo! 
Summat pleasant, just to pass the time. (Morell takes an 
illustrated paper from the table and offers it. He accepts it 
humbly.) Thank yer, James. (He goes back to his easy 
chair at the fire, and sits there at his ease, reading. ) 

morell (as he writes). Candida will come to entertain 
you presently. She has got rid of her pupil. She is filling 
the lamps. 

marchbanks (starting up in the wildest consternation). But 
that will soil her hands. I can't bear that, Morell: it's a 
shame. I'll go and fill them. (He makes for the door.) 



Act II Candida 43 

morell. You'd better not. (Marchbanks stops irreso- 
lutely.} She'd only set you to clean my boots, to save me 
the trouble of doing it myself in the morning. 

burgess {with grave disapproval}. Don't you keep a 
servant now, James? 

morell. Yes; but she isn't a slave; and the house looks 
as if I kept three. That means that everyone has to lend 
a hand. It's not a bad plan: Prossy and I can talk busi- 
ness after breakfast whilst we're washing up. Washing 
up'sno trouble when there are two people to doit. 

marchbanks (tormentedly). Do you think every woman 
is as coarse-grained as Miss Garnett? 

burgess (emphatically). That's quite right, Mr. Morch- 
banks. That's quite right. She is corse-grained. 

morell (quietly and significantly). Marchbanks! 

MARCHBANKS. YeS. 

morell. How many servants does your father keep? 

marchbanks. Oh, I don't know. (He comes back uneasily 
to the sofa, as if to get as far as possible from More //' s 
questioning, and sits down in great agony of mind, thinking 
of the paraffin.) 

morell (very gravely). So many that you don't know. 
(More aggressively.) Anyhow, when there's anything coarse- 
grained to be done, you ring the bell and throw it on to 
somebody else, eh? That's one of the great facts in your 
existence, isn't it? 

marchbanks. Oh, don't torture me. The one great fact 

now is that your wife's beautiful fingers are dabbling in 

paraffin oil, and that you are sitting here comfortably 

preaching about it — everlasting preaching, preaching, 

^-words, words, words. 

burgess (intensely appreciating this retort). Ha, ha! Devil 
a better. (Radiantly.) 'Ad you there, James, straight. 

(Candida comes in, well aproned, with a reading lawf 



44 Candida Act II 

trimmed, filled \ and ready for lighting. She places it on the 
table near Morell, ready for use.) 

Candida {brushing her finger tips together with a slight 
twitch of her nose). If you stay with us, Eugene, I think 
I will hand over the lamps to you. 

marchbanks. I will stay on condition that you hand over 
all the rough work to me. 

Candida. That's very gallant; but I think I should like 
to see how you do it first. {Turning to Morell.) James: 
you've not been looking after the house properly. 

morell. What have I done — or not done — my love? 

Candida {with serious vexation). My own particular pet 
scrubbing brush has been used for *blackleading. {A heart- 
breaking wail bursts from Marchbanks. Burgess looks round, 
amazed. Candida hurries to the sofa.) What's the matter? 
Are you ill, Eugene? 

marchbanks. No, not ill. Only horror, horror, horror! 
{He bows his head on his hands.) 

burgess {shocked). What! Gotthe'^'orrors, Mr. Morch- 
banks! Oh, that's bad, at your age. You must leave it off" 
grajally. 

Candida {reassured). Nonsense, papa. It's only poetic 
horror, isn't it, Eugene? {Petting him.) 

burgess {abashed). Oh, poetic 'orror, is it? I beg your 
pordon, I'm shore. {He turns to the fire again, deprecating 
his hasty conclusion.) 

Candida. What is it, Eugene — the scrubbing brush? {He 
shudders.) Well, there! nevermind. {She sits down beside 
him.) Wouldn't you like to present me with a nice new 
one, with an ivory back inlaid with mother-of-pearl? 

marchbanks {softly and musically, but sadly and longingly) . 
No, not a scrubbing brush, but a boat — a tiny shallop to sail 
away in, far from the world, where the marble floors are 
washed by the rain and dried by the sun, where the south 
wind dusts the beautiful green and purple carpets. Or a 



Act II Candida 45 

chariot — to carry us up into the sky, where the lamps are 
stars, and don't need to be filled with paraffin oil every day. 

morell (harshly) . And where there is nothing to do but 
to be idle, selfish and useless. 

Candida (jarred). Oh, James, how could you spoil it all! 

marchbanks (firing up). Yes, to be idle, selfish and use- 
less: that is to be beautiful and free and happy: hasn't 
every man desired that with all his soul for the woman he 
loves? That's my ideal: what's yours, and that of all the 
dreadful people who live in these hideous rows of houses? 
Sermons and scrubbing brushes! With you to preach the 
sermon and your wife to scrub. 

Candida (quaintly). He cleans the boots, Eugene. You 
will have to clean them to-morrow for saying that about him. 

marchbanks. Oh! don't talk about boots. Your feet 
should be beautiful on the mountains. 

Candida. My feet would not be beautiful on the Hack- 
ney Road without boots. 

burgess (scandalized). Come, Candy, don't be vulgar. 
Mr. Morchbanks ain't accustomed to it. You're givin' 
him the 'orrors again. I mean the poetic ones. 

(Morell is silent. Apparently he is busy with his letters: 
really he is puzzling with misgiving over his new and alarm- 
ing experience that the surer he is of his moral thrusts, the 
more swiftly and effectively Eugene parries them. To find 
himself beginning to fear a man whom he does not respect 
afflicts him bitterly?) 

(Miss Garnet t comes in with a telegram.) 

proserpine (handing the telegram to Morell). Reply 
paid. The boy's waiting. (To Candida, coming back to 
her machine and sitting down.) Maria is ready for you now 
in the kitchen, Mrs. Morell. (Candida rises.) The 
onions have come. 

marchbanks (convulsively). Onions! 

Candida. Yes, onions. Not even Spanish ones — nasty 



46 Candida Act II 

little red onions. You shall help me to slice them. Come 
along. 

{She catches him by the wrist and runs out, pulling him 
after her. Burgess rises in consternation, and stands aghast 
on the hearth-rug, staring after them.) 

burgess. Candy didn't oughter 'andle a peer's nevvy like 
that. It's goin' too fur with it. Lookee 'ere, James: do 'e 
often git taken queer like that? 

morell {shortly, writing a telegram). I don't know. 

burgess (sentimentally). He talks very pretty. I alius 
had a turn for a bit of potery. Candy takes arter me that- 
a-way: huse ter make me tell her fairy stories when she 
was on'y a little kiddy not that 'igh {indicating a stature of 
two feet or thereabouts). 

morell {preoccupied). Ah, indeed. {He blots the tele- 
gram, and goes out. ) 

proserpine. Used you to make the fairy stories up out 
of your own head? 

{Burgess, not deigning to reply, strikes an attitude of the 
haughtiest disdain on the hearth-rug.) 

proserpine {calmly). I should never have supposed you 
had it in you. By the way, I'd better warn you, since 
you've taken such a fancy to Mr. Marchbanks. He's mad. 

burgess. Mad! Wot! 'Im too! ! 

proserpine. Mad as a March hare. He did frighten me, 
I can tell you just before you came in that time. Haven't 
you noticed the queer things he says? 

burgess. So that's wot the poetic 'orrors means. Blame 
me if it didn't come into my head once or twyst that he 
must be off his chump! {He crosses the room to the door, 
lifting up his voice as he goes.) Well, this is a pretty sort of 
asylum for a man to be in, with no one but you to take care 
of him! 

proserpine {as he passes her). Yes, what a dreadful 
thing it would be if anything happened to y o u ! 



Act II Candida 47 

burgess {loftily). Don't you address no remarks to me. 
Tell your hemployer that I've gone into the garden for a 
smoke. 

proserpine (mocking). Oh! 

(Before Burgess can retort, More 11 comes back.) 

burgess {sentimentally). Goin' for a turn in the garden 
to smoke, James. 

morell {brusquely). Oh, all right, all right. {Burgess 
goes out pathetically in the character of the weary old man. 
Morell stands at the table, • turning over his papers, and 
adding, across to Proserpine, half humorously, half absently) 
Well, Miss Prossy, why have you been calling my father- 
in-law names? 

proserpine {blushing fiery red, and looking quickly up at 
him, half scared, half reproachful). I — (She bursts into 
tears. ) 

morell {with tender gaiety, leaning across the table to- 
wards her, and consoling her). Oh, come, come, come! 
Never mind, Pross: he i s a silly old fathead, isn't he? 

{With an explosive sob, she makes a dash at the door, and 
vanishes, banging it. Morell, shaking his head resignedly, 
sighs, and goes wearily to his chair, where he sits down and 
sets to work, looking old and careworn?) 

(Candida comes in. She has finished her household work 
and taken off the apron. She at once notices his dejected 
appearance, and posts herself quietly at the spare chair, looking 
down at him attentively; but she says nothing.) 

morell (looking up, but with his pen raised ready to resume 
his work). Well? Where is Eugene? 

Candida. Washing his hands in the scullery — under the 
tap. He will make an excel 1 jnt cook if he can only get 
over his dread of Maria. 

morell (shortly). Ha! No doubt. (He begins writing 
again. ) 

Candida (going nearer, and putting her hand down softly on 



48 Candida Act II 

his to stop him, as she says). Come here, dear. Let me look 
at you. {He drops his pen and yields himself at her disposal. 
She makes him rise and brings him a little away from the 
table y looking at him critically all the time.) Turn your face 
to the light. (She places him facing the window.) My boy 
is not looking well. Has he been overworking? 

morell. Nothing more than usual. 

Candida. He looks very pale, and grey, and wrinkled, 
and old. {His melancholy deepens; and she attacks it with 
wilful gaiety.) Here {pulling him towards the easy chair) 
you've done enough writing for to-day. Leave Prossy to 
finish it and come and talk to me. 

morell. But — 

Candida. Yes, I must be talked to sometimes. {She 
makes him sit down, and seats herself on the carpet beside his 
knee.) Now {patting his hand) you're beginning to look 
better already. Why don't you give up all this tiresome 
overworking — going out every night lecturing and talking? 
Of course what you say is all very true and very right; but 
it does no good: they don't mind what you say to them one 
little bit. Of course they agree with you; but what's the 
use of people agreeing with you if they go and do just the 
opposite of what you tell them the moment your back is 
turned? Look at our congregation at St. Dominic's! Why 
do they come to hear you talking about Christianity every 
Sunday? Why, just because they've been so full of business 
and money-making for six days that they want to forget all 
about it and have a rest on the seventh, so that they can go 
back fresh and make money harder than ever! You posi- 
tively help them at it instead of hindering them. 

morell (with energetic seriousness). You know very well, 
Candida, that I often blow them up soundly for that. But 
if there is nothing in their church-going but rest and 
diversion, why don't they try something more amusing — 
more self-indulgent? There must be some good in the 



Act II Candida 49 

fact that they prefer St. Dominic's to worse places on 
Sundays. \ 

Candida. Oh, the worst places aren't open; and even if 
they were, they daren't be seen going to them. Besides, 
James, dear, you preach so splendidly that it's as good as a play 
for them. Why do you think the women are so enthusiastic? 

morell {shocked). Candida! 

Candida. Oh, /know. You silly boy: you think it's 
your Socialism and your religion; but if it was that, they'd 
do what you tell them instead of only coming to look at you. 
They all have Prossy's complaint. / 

morell. Prossy's complaint! What do you mean, Can- / 
dida? ( 

Candida. Yes, Prossy, and all the other secretaries you \ 
ever had. Why does Prossy condescend to wash up the 
things, and to peel potatoes and abase herself in all manner 
of ways for six shillings a week less than she used to get in 
a city office? She's in love with you, James: that's the 
reason. They're all in love with you. And you are in love 
with preaching because you do it so beautifully. And you 
think it's all enthusiasm for the kingdom of Heaven on earth; 
and so do they. You dear silly! 

morell. Candida: what dreadful, what soul-destroying 
cynicism! Are you jesting? Or — can it be? — are you / 
jealous? 

Candida (with curious thought fulness). Yes, I feel a little 
jealous sometimes. 

morell (incredulously). What! Of Prossy! 

Candida {laughing). No, no, no, no. Not jealous of 
anybody. Jealous for somebody else, who is not loved as 
he ought to be. 

morell. Me! 

Candida. You! Why, you're spoiled with love and 
worship: you get far more than is good for you. No: I 
mean Eugene, 



50 Candida Act II 

morell {startled), Eugene! 

Candida. It seems unfair that all the love should go to 
you, and none to him, although he needs it so much more 
than you do. {A convulsive movement shakes him in spite 
of 'himself \) What's the matter? Am I worrying you? 

morell {hastily). Not at all. {Looking at her with 
troubled intensity.) You know that I have perfect confi- 
dence in you, Candida. 

Candida. You vain thing! Are you so sure of your irre- 
sistible attractions? 

morell. Candida: you are shocking me. I never 
thought of my attractions. I thought of your goodness — 
your purity. That is what I confide in. 

Candida. What a nasty, uncomfortable thing to say to 
me ! Oh, you area clergyman, James — a thorough 
clergyman. 

morell {turning away from her, heart-stricken). So Eu- 
gene says. 

Candida {with lively interest , leaning over to him with her 
arms on his knee). Eugene's always right. He's a wonder- 
ful boy : I have grown fonder and fonder of him all the time 
I was away. Do you know, James, that though he has not 
the least suspicion of it himself, he is ready to fall madly in 
love with me? 

morell {grimly). Oh, he has no suspicion of it himself, 
hasn't he? 

Candida. Not a bit. {She takes her arms from his knee, 
and turns thoughtfully, sinking into a more restful attitude 
with her hands in her lap.) Some day he will know — 
when he is grown up and experienced, like you. And he 
will know that I must have known. I wonder what he 
will think of me then. 

morell. No evil, Candida. I hope and trust, no evil. 

Candida {dubiously). That will depend. 

morell {bewildered). Depend! 



Act II Candida 51 

Candida [looking at him). Yes: it will depend on what 
happens to him. (He looks vacantly at her.) Don't you 
see? It will depend on how he comes to learn what love 
really is. I me an on the s ort ofwoman^,whQ will-teach- 
it to him. 

morell [quite at a loss). Yes. No. I don't know what 
you mean. 

Candida (explaining). If he learns it from a good woman, 
then it will be all right: he will forgive me. 

morell. Forgive! 

Candida. But suppose he learns it from a bad woman, 
as so many men do, especially poetic men, who imagine all 
women are angels! Suppose he only discovers the value of 
love when he has thrown it away and degraded himself in 
his ignorance. Will he forgive me then, do you think? 

morell. Forgive you for what? 

Candida (realizing bow stupid be is, and a little disap- 
pointed, tbougb quite tenderly so). Don't you understand? 
(He shakes his bead. She turns to him again, so as to explain 
with the fondest intimacy.) I mean, will he forgive me for 
not teaching him myself? For abandoning him to the 
bad women for the sake of my goodness — my purity, as 
you call it? Ah, James, how little you understand me, to 
talk of your confidence in my goodness and purity! I 
would give them both to poor Eugene as willingly as I 
would give my shawl to a beggar dying of cold, if there 
were nothing else to restrain me. Put your trust in my 
love for you, James, for if that went, I should care very 
little for your sermons — mere phrases that you cheat your- 
self and others with every day. (She is about to rise.) 

morell. H i s words ! 

Candida (checking herself quickly in the act of getting up, 
so that she is on her knees, but upright). Whose words? 

morell. Eugene's. 

Candida (delighted). He is always right. He under- 



52 Candida Act II 

stands you; he understands me; he understands Prossy; 
and you, James — you understand nothing. {She laughs, 
and kisses him to console him. He recoils as if stung, and 
springs up.) 

morell. How can you bear to do that when — oh, Can- 
dida {with anguish in his voice) I had rather you had plunged 
a grappling iron into my heart than given me that kiss. 

Candida {rising, alarmed). My dear: what's the matter? 

morell {frantically waving her off). Don't touch me. 

Candida {amazed). James! 

( They are interrupted by the entrance of Marchbanks, with 
Burgess, who stops near the door, staring, whilst Eugene 
hurries forward between them.) 

marchbanks. Is anything the matter? 

morell {deadly white, putting an iron constraint on him- 
self). Nothing but this: that either you were right this 
morning, or Candida is mad. 

burgess {in loudest protest). Wot! Candy mad too! 
Oh, come, come, come ! {He crosses the room to the fireplace, 
protesting as he goes, and knocks the ashes out of his pipe on 
the bars. Morell sits down desperately, leaning forward to 
hide his face, and interlacing his fingers rigidly to keep them 
steady.) 

Candida {to Morell, relieved and laughing). Oh, you're 
only shocked! Is that all? How conventional all you un- 
conventional people are! 

burgess. Come: be'ave yourself, Candy. What'll Mr. 
Morchbanks think of you? 

Candida. This comes of James teaching me to think for 
myself, and never to hold back out of fear of what other 
people may think of me. It works beautifully as long as I 
think the same things as he does. But now, because I have 
just thought something different! — look at him — just look! 
{She points to Morell, greatly amused. Eugene looks, and 
instantly presses his hand on his heart , as if some deadly pain 



Act II Candida 53 

had shot through it, and sits down on the sofa like a man wit- 
nessing a tragedy.) 

burgess (on the hearth-rug). Well, James, you certainly 
ain't as himpressive lookin' as usu'l. 

morell (with a laugh which is half a sob). I suppose not. 
I beg all your pardons: I was not conscious of making a fuss. 
(Pulling himself together.) Well, well, well, well, well! 
(He goes back to his place at the table, setting to work at his 
papers again with resolute cheerfulness.) 

Candida (going to the sofa and sitting beside Marchbanks, 
still in a bantering humor). Well, Eugene, why are you so 
sad ? Did the onions make you cry? 

(Morell cannot prevent himself from watching them.) 

marchbanks {aside to her). It is your cruelty. I hate 
cruelty. It is a horrible thing to see one person make an- 
other suffer. 

Candida (petting him ironically). Poor boy, have I been 
cruel ? Did I make it slice nasty little red onions? 

marchbanks (earnestly). Oh, stop, stop: I don't mean 
myself. You have made him suffer frightfully. I feel his 
pain in my own heart. I know that it is not your fault- 
it is something that must happen; but don't make light of it. 
I shudder when you torture him and laugh. 

Candida (incredulously). I torture James! Nonsense, 
Eugene: how you exaggerate! Silly! (She looks round at 
Morell, who hastily resumes his writing. She goes to him 
and stands behind his chair, bending over him.) Don't work 
any more, dear. Come and talk to us. 

morell (affectionately but bitterly). Ah no: /can't talk. 
I can only preach. 

Candida (caressing him). Well, come and preach. 

burgess (strongly remonstrating). Aw, no, Candy. 'Ang 
it all! 

(Lexy Mill comes in, looking anxious and important.) 



54 Candida Act II 

lexy {hastening to shake hands with Candida). How do 
you do, Mrs. Morell? So glad to see you back again. 

Candida. Thank you, Lexy. You know Eugene, don't 
you? 

lexy. Oh, yes. How do you do, Marchbanks? 

marchbanks. Quite well, thanks. 

lexy (to Morell). Fve just come from the Guild of St. 
Matthew. They are in the greatest consternation about 
your telegram. There's nothing wrong, is there? 

Candida. What did you telegraph about, James? 

lexy (to Candida). He was to have spoken for them to- 
night. They've taken the large hall in Mare Street and 
spent a lot of money on posters. Morell' s telegram was 
to say he couldn't come. It came on them like a thunder- 
bolt. 

Candida (surprized, and beginning to suspect something 
wrong). Given up an engagement to speak! 

burgess. First time in his life, I'll bet. Ain' it, Candy? 

lexy (to Morell). They decided to send an urgent tele- 
gram to you asking whether you could not change your 
mind. Have you received it? 

morell (with restrained impatience). Yes, yes: I got it. 

lexy. It was reply paid. 

morell. Yes, I know. I answered it. I can't go. 

Candida. But why, James? 

morell (almost fiercely). Because I don't choose. These 
people forget that I am a man: they think I am a talking 
machine to be turned on for their pleasure every evening 
of my life. May I not have one night at home, with my 
wife, and my friends? 

(They are all amazed at this outburst, except Eugene. 
His expression remains unchanged.) 

Candida. Oh, James, you know you'll have an attack of 
bad conscience to-morrow; and / shall have to suffer for 
that. 



Act II Candida 55 

lexy (intimidated, but urgent). I know, of course, that 
they make the most unreasonable demands on you. But 
they have been telegraphing all over the place for another 
speaker: and they can get nobody but the President of the 
Agnostic League. 

morell (promptly). Well, an excellent man. What 
better do they want? 

lexy. But he always insists so powerfully on the divorce 
of Socialism from Christianity. He will undo all the good 
we have been doing. Of course you know best; but — 
(He hesitates,) 

Candida (coaxingly). Oh, do go, James. We'll all go. 

burgess (grumbling). Look 'ere, Candy! I say! Let's 
stay at home by the fire, comfortable. He won't need to 
be more'n a couple-o'-hour away. 

Candida. You'll be just as comfortable at the meeting. 
We'll all sit on the platform and be great people. 

eugene (terrified). Oh, please don't let us go on the 
platform. No — everyone will stare at us — I couldn't. 
I'll sit at the back of the room. 

Candida. Don't be afraid. They'll be too busy looking 
at James to notice you. 

morell (turning bis head and looking meaningly at her over 
his shoulder). Prossy's complaint, Candida! Eh? 

Candida (gaily). Yes. 

burgess (mystified). Prossy's complaint. Wot are you 
talking about, James? 

morell (not heeding him, rises; goes to the door; and holds 
it open, shouting in a commanding voice). Miss Garnett. 

proserpine (in the distance). Yes, Mr. Morell. Coming. 

( They all wait, except Burgess, who goes stealthily to Lexy 
and draws him aside.) 

burgess. Listen here, Mr. Mill. Wot's Prossy's com- 
plaint? Wot's wrong with 'er? 

lexy (confidentially). Well, I don't exactly know; but she 



56 Candida Act II 

spoke very strangely to me this morning. I'm afraid she's 
a little out of her mind sometimes. 

burgess (overwhelmed}. Why, it must be catchin' ! Four 
in the same 'ouse! (He goes back to the hearth, quite lost 
before the instability of the human intellect in a clergyman's 
house. ) 

proserpine (appearing on the threshold}. What is it, Mr. 
Morell ? 

morell. Telegraph to the Guild of St. Matthew that I 
am coming. 

proserpine (surprised}. Don't they expect you? 

morell (peremptorily). Do as I tell you. 

(Proserpine frightened, sits down at her typewriter, and 
obeys. Morell goes across to Burgess, Candida watching his 
movements all the time with growing wonder and misgiving.) 

morell. Burgess: you don't want to come? 

burgess (in deprecation). Oh, don't put it like that, 
James. It's only that it ain't Sunday, you know. 

morell. I'm sorry. I thought you might like to be 
introduced to the chairman. He's on the Works Com- 
mittee of the County Council and has some influence in 
the matter of contracts. (Burgess wakes up at once. Mor- 
ell, expecting as much, waits a moment, and says) Will you 
come? 

burgess (with enthusiasm). Course I'll come, James. 
Ain' it always a pleasure to 'ear you. 

morell (turning from him). I shall want you to take some 
notes at the meeting, Miss Garnett, if you have no other 
engagement. (She nods, afraid to speak.) You are coming, 
Lexy, I suppose. 

lexy. Certainly. 

Candida. We are all coming, James. 

morell. No: you are not coming; and Eugene is not 
coming. You will stay here and entertain him — to cele- 
brate your return home. (Eugene rises, breathless.) 



Act II Candida 57 

Candida. But James — 

morell (authoritatively). I insist. You do not want to 
come; and he does not want to come. (Candida is about to 
protest.) Oh, don't concern yourselves: I shall have plenty 
of people without you: your chairs will be wanted by un- 
converted people who have never heard me before. 

Candida (troubled). Eugene: wouldn't you like to 
come? 

morell. I should be afraid to let myself go before 
Eugene: he is so critical of sermons. (Looking at him.) He 
knows I am afraid of him: he told me as much this morn- 
ing. Well, I shall shew him how much afraid I am by 
leaving him here in your custody, Candida. 

marchbanks (to him self \ with vivid feeling). That's brave. 
That's beautiful. (He sits down again listening with parted 
lips.) 

Candida (with anxious misgiving). But — but — Is any- 
thing the matter, James? (Greatly troubled.) I can't under- 
stand — 

morell. Ah, I thought it was / who couldn't under- 
stand, dear, (He takes her tenderly in his arms and kisses her 
on the forehead; then looks round quietly at Marchbanks.) 



ACT III 

Late in the evening. Past ten. The curtains are drawn, 
and the lamps lighted. The typewriter is in its case; the 
large table has been cleared and tidied; everything indicates 
that the day* s work is done. 

Candida and March banks are seated at the fire. The read- 
ing lamp is on the mantelshelf above Marchbanks, who is 
sitting on the small chair reading aloud from a manuscript. A 
little pile of manuscripts and a couple of volumes of poetry are 
on the carpet beside him. Candida is in the easy chair with 
the poker ; a light brass one, upright in her hand. She is 
leaning back and looking at the point of it curiously , with her 
feet stretched towards the blaze and her heels resting on the 
fender, profoundly unconscious of her appearance and surround- 
ings. 

marchbanks (breaking off in his recitation). Every poet 
that ever lived has put that thought into a sonnet. He 
must: he can't help it. (He looks to her for assent, and 
notices her absorption in the poker.) Haven't you been list- 
ening? (No response.) Mrs. Morell! 

Candida (starting). Eh? 

marchbanks. Haven't you been listening? 

Candida (with a guilty excess of politeness). Oh, yes. 
It's very nice. Go on, Eugene. I'm longing to hear 
what happens to the angel. 

marchbanks (crushed — the manuscript dropping from his 
band to the floor). I beg your pardon for boring you. 



Act III Candida 59 

Candida. But you are not boring me, I assure you. 
Please go en. Do, Eugene. 

marchbanks. I finished the poem about the angel quarter 
of an hour ago. I've read you several things since. 

Candida {remorsefully). I'm so sorry, Eugene. I think 
the poker must have fascinated me. (She puts it down.) 

marchbanks. It made me horribly uneasy. 

Candida. Why didn't you tell me? I'd have put it 
down at once. 

marchbanks. I was afraid of making you uneasy, too. 
It looked as if it were a weapon. If I were a hero of old, 
I should have laid my drawn sword between us. If Morell 
had come in he would have thought you had taken up the 
poker because there was no sword between us. 

Candida {wondering) . What? ( With a puzzled glance at 
him.) I can't quite follow that. Those sonnets of yours 
have perfectly addled me. Why should there be a sword 
between us? 

marchbanks (evasively). Oh, never mind. (He stoops to 
pick up the manuscript.) 

Candida. Put that down again, Eugene. There are 
limits to my appetite for poetry — even your poetry. You've 
been reading to me for more than two hours — ever since 
James went out. I want to talk. 

marchbanks (rising, scared). No: I mustn't talk. (He 
looks round him in his lost way, and adds, suddenly) I think 
I' 11 go out and take a walk in the park. (Making for the door.) 

Candida. Nonsense: it's shut long ago. Come and sit 
down on the hearth-rug, and talk moonshine as you usually 
do. I want to be amused. Don't you want to? 

marchbanks (in half terror, half rapture). Yes. 

Candida. Then come along. (She moves her chair back 
a little to make room. He hesitates; then timidly stretches 
himself on the hearth-rug, face upwards, and throws back his 
head across her knees, looking up at her.) 



60 Candida Act III 

marchbanks. Oh, I've been so miserable all the evening, 
because I was doing right. Now I'm doing wrong; and 
I'm happy. 

Candida {tenderly amused at him). Yes: I'm sure you 
feel a great grown up wicked deceiver— quite proud of your- 
self, aren't you? 

marchbanks (raising his head quickly and turning a little 
to look round at her). Take care. I'm ever so much older 
than you, if you only knew. (He turns quite over on his 
knees, with his hands clasped and his arms on her lap, and 
speaks with growing impulse, his blood beginning to stir.) 
May I say some wicked things to you? 

Candida (without the least fear or coldness, quite nobly, and 
with perfect respect for his passion, but with a touch of her 
wise-hearted maternal humor). No. But you may say 
anything you really and truly feel. Anything at all, no 
matter what it is. I am not afraid, so long as it is your 
real self that speaks, and not a mere attitude — a gallant 
attitude, or a wicked attitude, or even a poetic attitude. I 
put you on your honor and truth. Now say whatever you 
want to. 

marchbanks (the eager expression vanishing utterly from 
his lips and nostrils as his eyes light up with pathetic spiritu- 
ality). Oh, now I can't say anything: all the words I know 
belong to some attitude or other — all except one. 

Candida. What one is that? 

marchbanks (softly, losing himself in the music of the name). 
Candida, Candida, Candida, Candida, Candida. I must 
say that now, because you have put me on my honor and 
truth; and I never think or feel Mrs. Morell: it is always 
Candida. 

Candida. Of course. And what have you to say to 
Candida? 

marchbanks. Nothing, but to repeat your name a thou- 



Act III Candida 61 

sand times. Don't you feel that every time is a prayer to 
you ? 

Candida. Doesn't it make you happy to be able to pray? 

marchbanks. Yes, very happy. 

Candida. Well, that happiness is the answer to your 
prayer. Do you want anything more? 

marchbanks (in beatitude). No: I have come into heaven, 
where want is unknown. 

(Morell comes in. He baits on the threshold, and takes in 
the scene at a glance.) 

morell (grave and self- contained). I hope I don't dis- 
turb you. 

{Candida starts up violently , but without the smallest em- 
barrassment, laughing at herself. Eugene, still kneeling, saves 
himself from falling by putting his hands on the seat of the 
chair, and remains there, staring open mouthed at Morell.) 

Candida (as she rises). Oh, James, how you startled 
me! I was so taken up with Eugene that I didn't hear 
your latch-key. How did the meeting go off? Did you 
speak well? 

morell. I have never spoken better in my life. 

Candida. That was first rate ! How much was the 
collection ? 

morell. I forgot to ask. 

Candida (to Eugene). He must have spoken splendidly, 
or he would never have forgotten that. (To Morell?) 
Where are all the others? 

morell. They left long before I could get away: I 
thought I should never escape. I believe they are having 
supper somewhere. 

Candida (in her domestic business tone). Oh; in that case, 
Maria may goto bed. I'll tell her. (She goes out to the 
kitchen.) 

morell (looking sternly down at Marchbanks). Well? 



62 Candida Act HI 

marchbanks {squatting cross-legged on the hearth-rug, and 
actually at ease with More 11 — even impishly humorous) . Well? 

morell. Have you anything to tell me? 

marchbanks. Only that I have been making a fool of 
myself here in private whilst you have been making a fool 
of yourself in public. 

morell. Hardly in the same way, I think. 

marchbanks {scrambling up — eagerly). The very, very, 
very same way. I have been playing the good man just 
like you. When you began your heroics about leaving me 
here with Candida — 

morell {involuntarily). Candida? 

marchbanks Oh, yes: I've got that far. Heroics are 
infectious: I caught the disease from you. I swore not to 
say a word in your absence that I would not have said a 
month ago in your presence. 

morell. Did you keep your oath? 

marchbanks. {suddenly perching himself grotesquely on the 
easy chair). I was ass enough to keep it until about ten 
minutes ago. Up to that moment I went on desperately 
reading to her — reading my own poems — anybody's poems 
— to stave off a conversation. I was standing outside the 
gate of Heaven, and refusing to go in. Oh, you can't 
think how heroic it was, and how uncomfortable! Then — 

morell {steadily controlling his suspense). Then? — 

marchbanks {prosaically slipping down into a quite ordi- 
nary attitude in the chair).- Then she couldn't bear being 
read to any longer. 

morell. And you approached the gate of Heaven at 
last? 

marchbanks. Yes. 

morell. Well? {Fiercely.) Speak, man: have you no 
feeling for me? 

marchbanks {softly and musically). Then she became an 
angel; and there was a flaming sword that turned every 



Act III Candida 63 

way, so that I couldn't go in; for I saw that that gate was 
really the gate of Hell. 

morell {triumphantly). She repulsed you! 

marchbanks {rising in wild scorn). No, you fool: if she 
had done that I should never have seen that I was in 
Heaven already. Repulsed me! You think that would 
have saved me — virtuous indignation! Oh, you are not 
worthy to live in the same world with her. {He turns 
away contemptuously to the other side of the room.) 

morell {who has watched him quietly without changing 
his place) . Do you think you make yourself more worthy 
by reviling me, Eugene? 

marchbanks. Here endeth the thousand and first lesson. 
Morell: I don't think much of your preaching after all: 
I believe I could do it better myself. The man I want to 
meet is the man that Candida married. 

morell. The man that — ? Do you mean me? 

marchbanks. I don't mean the Reverend James Mavor 
Morell, moralist and windbag. I mean the real man that 
the Reverend James must have hidden somewhere inside 
his black coat — the man that Candida loved. You can't 
make a woman like Candida love you by merely buttoning 
your collar at the back instead of in front. 

morell {boldly and steadily). When Candida promised 
to marry me, I was the same moralist and windbag that 
you now see. I wore my black coat; and my collar was 
buttoned behind instead of in front. Do you think she 
would have loved me any the better for being insincere in 
my profession? 

marchbanks {on the sofa hugging his ankles). Oh, she 
forgave you, just as she forgives me for being a coward, and 
a weakling, and what you call a snivelling little whelp 
and all the rest of it. {Dreamily.) A woman like that has 
divine insight: she loves our souls, and not our follies and 
vanities and illusions, or our collars and coats, or any other 



64 Candida Act III 

of the rags and tatters we are rolled up in. (He reflects on 
this for an instant; then turns intently to question More//.) 
What I want to know is how you got past the flaming 
sword that stopped me. 

morell (meaningly). Perhaps because I was not inter- 
rupted at the end of ten minutes. 

marchbanks (taken aback). What! 

morell. Man can climb to the highest summits; but he 
cannot dwell there long. 

xMarchbanks. It's false: there can he dwell for ever and 
there only. It's in the other moments that he can find no 
rest, no sense of the silent glory of life. Where would 
you have me spend my moments, if not on the summits? 

morell. In the scullery, slicing onions and filling lamps. 

marchbanks. Or in the pulpit, scrubbing cheap earthen- 
ware souls? 

morell. Yes, that, too. It was there that I earned my 
golden moment, and the right, in that moment, to ask her 
to love me. / did not take the moment on credit; nor 
did I use it to steal another man's happiness. 

marchbanks (rather disgustedly, trotting back towards the 
fireplace). I have no doubt you conducted the transaction as 
honestly as if you were buying a pound of cheese. (He 
stops on the brink of the hearth-rug and adds,. thoughtfully, to 
himself, with his back turned to Morell) I could only go to 
her as a beggar. 

morell (starting). A beggar dying of cold — asking for 
her shawl? 

marchbanks (turning, surprised). Thank you for touch- 
ing up my poetry. Yes, if you like, a beggar dying of cold 
asking for her shawl. 

morell (excitedly). And she refused. Shall I tell you 
why she refused? I can tell you, on her own authority. 
It was because of — 

marchbanks. She didn't refuse. 



Act III Candida 65 

MORELL. Not! 

marchbanks. She offered me all I chose to ask for, her 
shawl, her wings, the wreath of stars on her head, the 
lilies in her hand, the crescent moon beneath her feet — 

morell {seizing him). Out with the truth, man: my 
wife is my wife: I want no more of your poetic fripperies. 
I know well that if I have lost her love and you have gained 
it, no law will bind her. 

marchbanks {quaintly, without fear or resistance). Catch 
me by the shirt collar, Morell: she will arrange it for me 
afterwards as she did this morning. {With quiet rapture.) 
I shall feel her hands touch me. 

morell. You young imp, do you know how dangerous 
it is to say that to me? Or {with a sudden misgiving) has 
something made you brave? 

marchbanks. I'm not afraid now. I disliked you be- 
fore: that was why I shrank from your touch. But I saw 
to-day — when she tortured you — that you love her. Since 
then I have been your friend: you may strangle me if you 
like. 

morell {releasing him). Eugene: if that is not a heart- 
less lie — if you have a spark of human feeling left in you — 
will you tell me what has happened during my absence? 

marchbanks. What happened! Why, the flaming 
sword — {Morell stamps with impatience .) Well, in plain 
prose, I loved her so exquisitely that I wanted nothing 
more than the happiness of being in such love. And be- 
fore I had time to come down from the highest summits, 
you came in. 

morell {suffering deeply). So it is still unsettled — still 
the misery of doubt. 

marchbanks. Misery! I am the happiest of men. I 
desire nothing now but her happiness. {With dreamy en- 
thusiasm.) Oh, Morell, let us both give her up. Why 
should she have to choose between a wretched little nervous 



66 Candida Act III 

disease like me, and a pig-headed parson like you? Let us 
go on a pilgrimage, you to the east and I to the west, in 
search of a worthy lover for her — some beautiful archangel 
with purple wings — 

morell. Some fiddlestick. Oh, if she is mad enough to 
leave me for you, who will protect her? Who will help 
her? who will work for her? who will be a father to her 
children? {He sits down distractedly on the sofa, with 
bis elbows on his knees and his head propped on his clenched 
fists.) 

marchbanks {snapping his finger s wildly). She does not 
ask those silly questions. It is she who wants somebody to 
protect, to help, to work for — somebody to give her chil- 
dren to protect, to help and to work for. Some grown up 
man who has become as a little child again. Oh, you fool, 
you fool, you triple fool! I am the man, Morell: I am 
the man. {He dances about excitedly, crying.) You don't 
understand what a woman is. Send for her, Morell: send 
for her and let her choose between — {The door opens and 
Candida enters. He stops as if petrified.) 

Candida {amazed, on the threshold). What on earth are 
you at, Eugene? 

marchbanks {oddly). James and I are having a preaching 
match; and he is getting the worst of it. {Candida looks 
quickly round at Morell. Seeing that he is distressed, she 
hurries down to him, greatly vexed, speaking with vigorous re- 
proach to Marchbanks.) 

Candida. You have been annoying him. Now I won't 
have it, Eugene: do you hear? {Putting her hand on Mor- 
ell 9 s shoulder, and quite forgetting her wifely tact in her 
annoyance.) My boy shall not be worried: I will protect 
him. 

morell {rising proudly). Protect! 

Candida {not heeding him — to Eugene). What have you 
been saying? 



Act III Candida 67 

marchbanks (appalled). Nothing — I — 

Candida. Eugene! Nothing? 

marchbanks (piteously), I mean — I — I'm very sorry. I 
won't do it again: indeed I won't. I'll let him alone. 

morell (indignantly, with an aggressive movement towards 
Eugene), Let me alone! You young — 

Candida (stopping him), Sh — no, let me deal with him, 
James. 

marchbanks. Oh, you're not angry with me, are you? 

Candida (severely). Yes, I am — very angry. I have a 
great mind to pack you out of the house. 

morell (taken aback by Candida* s vigor, and by no means 
relishing the sense of being rescued by her from another man). 
Gently, Candida, gently. I am able to take care of my- 
self. 

Candida (petting him). Yes, dear: of course you are. But 
you mustn't be annoyed and made miserable. 

marchbanks (almost in tears , turning to the door), I'll 

go- 

Candida. Oh, you needn't go: I can't turn you out at 

this time of night. (Vehemently,) Shame on you! For 
shame ! 

marchbanks (desperately). But what have I done? 

Candida. I know what you have done — as well as if I 
had been here all the time. Oh, it was unworthy! You 
are like a child: you cannot hold your tongue. 

marchbanks. I would die ten times over sooner than give 
you a moment's pain. 

Candida (with infinite contempt for this puerility). Much 
good your dying would do me! 

morell. Candida, my dear: this altercation is hardly 
quite seemingly. It is a matter between two men; and I 
am the right person to settle it. 

Candida. Two men! Do you call that a man? (To 
Eugene,) You bad boy! 



68 Candida Act III 

marchbanks (gathering a whimsically affectionate courage 
from the scolding). If I am to be scolded like this, I must 
make a boy's excuse. He began it. And he's bigger than 
I am. 

Candida {losing confidence a little as her concern for Mor- 
ell 9 s dignity takes the alarm). That can't be true. {To 
MorelL) You didn't begin it, James, did you? 

morell (contemptuously). No. 

marchbanks (indignant). Oh! 

morell (to Eugene). You began it — this morning. 
( Candida, instantly connecting this with his mysterious allusion 
in the afternoon to something told him by Eugene in the morn- 
ing, looks quickly at him, wrestling with the enigma. Morell 
proceeds with the emphasis of offended superiority.) But your 
other point is true. I am certainly the bigger of the two, 
and, I hope, the stronger, Candida. So you had better 
leave the matter in my hands. 

Candida (again soothing him), .Yes, dear; but — {Troubled.) 
I don't understand about this morning. 

morell (gently snubbing her). You need not understand, 
my dear. 

candidAo But, James, I — (The street bell rings.) Oh, 
bother! Here they all come. (She goes out to let them in.) 

marchbanks {running to Morell). Oh, Morell, isn't it 
dreadful? She's angry with us: she hates me. What shall 
I do? 

morell (with quaint desperation, clutching himself by the 
hair). Eugene: my head is spinning round. I shall begin 
to laugh presently. (He walks up and down the middle of the 
room.) 

marchbanks (following him anxiously). No, no: she'll 
think I've thrown you into hysterics. Don't laugh. 

(Boisterous voices and laughter are heard approaching. 
Lexy Mill, his eyes sparkling, and his bearing denoting un- 
wonted e lev ationof spirit, enters with Burgess, who is greasy 



Act III Candida 69 

and self-complacent, but has all bis wits about him. Miss 
Garnett, with her smartest hat and jacket on, follows them; 
but though her eyes are brighter than before, she is evidently 
a prey to misgiving. She places herself with her back to her 
typewriting table, with one hand on it to rest herself, passes the 
other across her forehead as if she were a little tired and 
giddy. Marchbanks relapses into shyness and edges away into 
the corner near the window, where More IP 'j books are.) 

mill (exhilaratedly).. Morell: I must congratulate you. 
(Grasping his hand.) What a noble, splendid, inspired 
address you gave us! You surpassed yourself. 

burgess. So you did, James. It fair kep' me awake to 
the last word. Didn't it, Miss Gornett? 

proserpine {worriedly). Oh, I wasn't minding you: I 
was trying to make notes* {She takes out her note-book, and 
looks at her stenography, which nearly makes her cry.) 

morell. Did I go too fast, Pross? 

proserpine. Much too fast. You know I can't do more 
than a hundred words a minute. {She relieves her feelings 
by throwing her note-book angrily beside her machine, ready 
for use next morning.) 

morell {soothingly). Oh, well, well, never mind, never 
mind, never mind. Have you all had supper? 

lexy. Mr. Burgess has been kind enough to give us a 
really splendid supper at the Belgrave. 

burgess (with effusive magnanimity). Don't mention it, 
Mr. Mill. (Modestly.) You're 'arty welcome to my little 
treat. 

proserpine. We had champagne! I never tasted it 
before. I feel quite giddy. 

morell (surprised). A champagne supper! That was 
very handsome. Was it my eloquence that produced all 
this extravagance? 

mill (rhetorically). Your eloquence, and Mr. Burgess's 
goodness of heart. (With a fresh burst of exhilaration. \ 



70 Candida Act III 

And what a very fine fellow the chairman is, Morell! He 
came to supper with us. 

morell {with long drawn significance, looking at Burgess). 
O-o-o-h, the chairman. N o w I understand. 

(Burgess, covering a lively satisfaction in his diplomatic 
cunning with a deprecatory cough, retires to the hearth. 
Lexy folds his arms and leans against the cellaret in a high- 
spirited attitude. Candida comes in with glasses, lemons, and 
a jug of hot water on a tray.) 

Candida. Who will have some lemonade? You know 
our rules: total abstinence. (She puts the tray on the table, 
and takes up the lemon squeezers, looking enquiringly round at 
them.) 

morell. No use, dear. They've all had champagne. 
Pross has broken her pledge. 

Candida (to Proserpine). You don't mean to say you've 
been drinking champagne! 

proserpine (stubbornly). Yes, I do. I'm only a beer tee- 
totaller, not a champagne teetotaller. I don't like beer. 
Are there any letters forme to answer, Mr. Morell? 

morell. No more to-night. 

proserpine. Very well. Good-night, everybody. 

lexy (gallantly). Had I not better see you home, Miss 
Garnett? 

proserpine. No, thank you. I shan't trust myself with 
anybody to-night. I wish I hadn't taken any of that stuff. 
(She walks straight out.) 

burgess (indignantly). Stuff, indeed! That gurl dunno 
wot champagne is! Pommery and Greeno at twelve and 
six a bottle. She took two glasses a' most straight hoff. 

morell (a little anxious about her). Go and look after 
her, Lexy. 

lexy (alarmed). But if she should really be — Suppose 
she began to sing in the street, or anything of that sort. 



Act III Candida 71 

morell. Just so: she may. That's why you'd better 
see her safely home. 

Candida. Do, Lexy: there's a good fellow. (She shakes 
his hand and pushes him gently to the door.) 

lexy. It's evidently my duty to go. I hope it may not 
be necessary. Good-night, Mrs. Morell. (To the rest.) 
Good -night. (He goes. Candida shuts the door.) 

burgess. He was gushin' with hextra piety hisself arter 
two sips. People carn't drink like they huseter. (Dis- 
missing the subject and bustling away from the hearth.) Well, 
James: it's time to lock up. Mr. Morchbanks: shall I 
'ave the pleasure of your company for a bit of the way 
home? 

marchbanks (affrightedly) . Yes: I'd better go. (He 
hurries across to the door; but Candida places herself before it , 
barring his way.) 

Candida (with quiet authority). You sit down. You're 
not going yet. 

marchbanks (quailing). No: I — I didn't mean to. (He 
comes back into the room and sits down abjectly on the sofa.) 

Candida. Mr. Marchbanks will stay the night with us, 
papa. 

burgess. Oh, well, I'll say good-night. So long, James. 
(He shakes hands with Morell and goes on to Eugene.) Make 
'em give you a night light by your bed, Mr. Morchbanks: 
it'll comfort you if you wake up in the night with a touch of 
that complaint of yores. Good-night. 

marchbanks. Thank you: I will. Good-night, Mr. 
Burgess. (They shake hands and Burgess goes to the door.) 

Candida (intercepting Morell, who is following Burgess). 
Stay here, dear: I'll put on papa's coat for him. (She goes 
out with Burgess.) 

marchbanks. Morell: there's going to be a terrible scene. 
Aren't you afraid? 



72 Candida Act III 

morell. Not in the least. 

marchbanks. I never envied you your courage before. 
(He rises timidly and puts his hand appealingly on More/1 9 s 
forearm.) Stand by me, won't you? 

morell (casting him off gently, but resolutely). Each for 
himself, Eugene. She must choose between us now. (He 
goes to the other side of the room as Candida returns. Eugene 
sits down again on the sofa like a guilty schoolboy on his best 
behaviour.) 

Candida (between them 9 addressing Eugene). Are you 
sorry? 

marchbanks (earnestly) . Yes, heartbroken. 

Candida. Well, then, you are forgiven. Now go off to 
bed like a good little boy: I want to talk to James about 
you. 

marchbanks (rising in great consternation). Oh, I can't 
do that, Morell. I must be here. I'll not go away. Tell 
her. 

Candida (with quick suspicion). Tell me what? (His eyes 
avoid hers furtively. She turns and mutely transfers the ques- 
tion to Morell.) 

morell (bracing himself for the catastrophe). I have 
nothing to tell her, except (here his voice deepens to a 
measured and mournful tenderness) that she is my greatest 
treasure on earth — if she is really mine . 

Candida (coldly , offended by his yielding to his orator's in- 
stinct and treating her as if she were the audience at the 
Guild of St. Matthew). I am sure Eugene can say no less, 
if that is all. 

marchbanks (discouraged). Morell: she's laughing at us. 

morell (with a quick touch of temper). There is nothing 
to laugh at. Are you laughing at us, Candida? 

Candida (with quiet anger). Eugene is very quick-witted, 
James. I hope I am going to laugh; but I am not sure that 
I am not going to be very angry. (She goes to the fireplace. 



v 



■ * " • - 



Act III Candida 73 

and stands there leaning with her arm on the mantelpiece y 
and her foot on the fender y whilst Eugene steals to Morell 
and plucks him by the sleeve?) 

marchbanks (whispering). Stop, Morell. Don't let us 
say anything. 

morell (pushing Eugene away without deigning to look at 
him). I hope you don't mean that as a threat, Candida. 

Candida (with emphatic warning). Take care, James. 
Eugene: I asked you to go. Are you going? 

morell (putting his foot down). He shall not go. I wish 
him to remain. 

marchbanks. I'll go. I'll do whatever you want. (He 
turns to the door.) 

Candida. Stop! (He obeys.) Didn't you hear James say 
he wished you to stay? James is master here. Don't you 
know that? 

marchbanks (flushing with a young poet 9 s rage against 
tyranny). By what right is he master? 

Candida (quietly). Tell him, James. 

morell (taken aback). My dear: I don't know of any 
right that makes me master. I assert no such right. 

Candida (with infinite reproach). You don't know! Oh, 
James, James! (To Eugene, musingly.) I wonder do you 
understand, Eugene! No: you're too young. Well, I 
give you leave to stay — to stay and learn. (She comes away 
from the hearth and places herself between them.) Now, 
James: what's the matter? Come: tell me. 

marchbanks (whispering tremulously across to him). Don't. 

Candida. Come. Out with it! 

morell (slowly). I meant to prepare your mind carefully, 
Candida, so as to prevent misunderstanding. 

Candida. Yes, dear: I am sure you did. But never 
mind: I shan't misunderstand. 

morell. Well — er — (He hesitates, unable to find the long 
explanation which he supposed to be available.) 



74 Candida Act III 

CANDIDA. Well ? 

morell (baldly). Eugene declares that you are in love 
with him. 

marchbanks (frantically). No, no, no, no, never. I 
did not, Mrs. Morell: it's not true. I said I loved you, 
and that he didn't. I said that I understood you, and that 
he couldn't. And it was not after what passed there 
before the fire that I spoke: it was not, on my word. It 
was this morning. 

Candida (enlightened). This morning! 

marchbanks. Yes. (He looks at her y pleading for credence, 
and then adds, simply) That was what was the matter with 
my collar. 

Candida (after a pause; for she does not take in his mean- 
ing at once). His collar! (She turns to Morell, shocked.) 
Oh, James: did you — (she stops)} 

morell (ashamed). You know, Candida, that I have a 
temper to struggle with. And he said (shuddering) that you 
despised me in your heart. 

Candida (turning quickly on Eugene). Did you say that? 

marchbanks (terrified). No! 

Candida (severely). Then James has just told me a false- 
hood. Is that what you mean? 

marchbanks. No, no: I — I — (blurting out the explana- 
tion desperately) — it was David's wife. And it wasn't at 
home: it was when she saw him dancing before all the peo- 
ple. 

morell (taking the cue with a debater's adroitness). Danc- 
ing before all the people, Candida; and thinking he was 
moving their hearts by his mission when they were only suf- 
fering from — Prossy's complaint. {She is about to protest: 
he raises his hand to silence her, exclaiming) Don't try to 
look indignant, Candida: — 

Candida (interjecting). Try! 

morell (continuing). Eugene was right. As you told me 



Act III Candida 75 

a few hours after, he is always right. He said nothing that 
you did not say far better yourself. He is the poet, who 
sees everything; and I am the poor parson, who under- 
stands nothing. 

Candida (remorsefully). Do you mind what is said by a 
foolish boy, because I said something like it again in jest? 

morell. That foolish boy can speak with the inspiration 
of a child and the cunning of a serpent. He has claimed 
that you belong to him and not to me; and, rightly or 
wrongly, I have come to fear that it may be true. I will 
not go about tortured with doubts and suspicions. I will 
not live with you and keep a secret from you. I will not 
suffer the intolerable degradation of jealousy. We have 
agreed — he and I — that you shall choose between us now. 
I await your decision. 

Candida {slowly recoiling a step, her heart hardened by his 
rhetoric in spite of the sincere feeling behind it). Oh! I am 
to choose, am I? I suppose it is quite settled that I must 
belong to one or the other. 

morell (firmly). Quite. You must choose definitely. 

marchbanks (anxiously). Morell: you don't understand. 
She means that she belongs to herself. 

Candida (turning on him). I mean that and a good deal 
more, Master Eugene, as you will both find out presently. 
And pray, my lords and masters, what have you to offer for 
my choice? I am up for auction, it seems. What do you 
bid, James? 

morell (reproachfully). Cand — (He breaks down: his 
eyes and throat fill with tears: the orator becomes the wounded 
animal.) I can't speak — 

Candida (impulsively going to him). Ah, dearest — 

marchbanks (in wild alarm). Stop: it's not fair. You 
mustn't show her that you suffer, Morell. I am on the 
rack, too; but I am not crying. 

morell (rallying all his forces). Yes: you are right. It 



76 Candida Act III 

is not for pity that I am bidding. (He disengages himself 
from Candida.} 

Candida (retreating, chilled") . I beg your pardon, James; 
I did not mean to touch you. I am waiting to hear your 
bid. 

morell (with proud humility). I have nothing to offer 
you but my strength for your defence, my honesty of pur- 
pose for your surety, my ability and industry for your liveli- 
hood, and my authority and position for your dignity That 
is all it becomes a man to offer to a woman. 

Candida (quite quietly). And you, Eugene? What do 
you offer? 

marchbanks. My weakness! my desolation! my heart's 
need! 

Candida (impressed). That's a good bid, Eugene. Now 
I know how to make my choice. 

She pauses and looks curiously from one to the other , as if 
weighing them. Morell, whose lofty confidence has changed 
into heartbreaking dread at Eugene* s bid, loses all power of 
concealing his anxiety. Eugene, strung to the highest tension, 
does not move a muscle. 

morell (in a suffocated voice — the appeal bursting from 
the depths of his anguish). Candida! 

marchbanks (aside, in a flash of contempt). Coward! 

Candida (significantly). I give myself to the weaker of 
the two. 

Eugene divines her meaning at once: his face whitens like 
steel in a furnace that cannot melt it. 

morell (bowing his head with the calm of collapse). I ac- 
cept your sentence, Candida. 

Candida. Do you understand, Eugene? 

marchbanks. Oh, I feel I'm lost. He cannot bear the 
burden. 

morell (incredulously, raising his head with prosaic abrupt- 
ness). Do you mean me, Candida? 



Act III Candida 77 

Candida {smiling a little). Let us sit and talk comfortably 
over it like three friends. {To MorelL) Sit down, dear. 
{More 11 takes the chair from the fireside — the children* s 
chair.) Bring me that chair, Eugene. {She indicates the 
easy chair. He fetches it silently, even with something like 
cold strength, and places it next More 11, a little behind him. 
She sits down. He goes to the sofa and sits there, still silent 
and inscrutable. When they are all settled she begins, throw- 
ing a spell of quietness on them by her calm, sane, tender tone.) 
You remember what you told me about yourself, Eugene: 
how nobody has cared for you since your old nurse died: 
how those clever, fashionable sisters and successful brothers 
of yours were your mother's and father's pets: how miser- 
able you were at Eton: how your father is trying to starve 
you into returning to Oxford: how you have had to live 
without comfort or welcome or refuge, always lonely, and 
nearly always disliked and misunderstood, poor boy ! 

marchbanks {faithful to the nobility of his lot). I had 
my books. I had Nature. And at last I met you. 

Candida. Never mind that just at present. Now I want 
you to look at this other boy here — m y boy — spoiled from 
his cradle. We go once a fortnight to see his parents. 
You should come with us, Eugene, and see the pictures of 
the hero of that household. James as a baby! the most 
wonderful of all babies. James holding his first school 
prize, won at the ripe age of eight! James as the captain 
of his eleven! James in his first frock coat! James under 
all sorts of glorious circumstances! You know how strong 
he is (I hope he didn't hurt you) — how clever he is — how 
happy! {With deepening gravity.) Ask James's mother and 
his three sisters what it cost to save James the trouble of 
doing anything but be strong and clever and happy. Ask 
m e what it costs to be James's mother and three sisters and 
wife and mother to his children all in one. Ask Prossy 
and Maria how troublesome the house is even when we 



78 Candida Act III 

have no visitors to help us to slice the onions. Ask the 
tradesmen who want to worry James and spoil his beautiful 
sermons who it is that puts them off. When there is 
money to give, he gives it: when there is money to refuse, 
I refuse it. I build a castle of comfort and indulgence and 
love for him, and stand sentinel always to keep little vulgar 
cares out. I make him master here, though he does not 
know it, and could not tell you a moment ago how it came 
to be so. (With sweet irony,) And when he thought I 
might go away with you, his only anxiety was what should 
become of m e ! And to tempt me to stay he offered me 
(leaning forward to stroke bis hair caressingly at each phrase) 
h i s strength for m y defence, his industry for my liveli- 
hood, his position for my dignity, his — (Relenting.) Ah, I am 
mixing up your beautiful sentences and spoiling them, am I 
not, darling? (She lays her cheek fondly against his.) 

morell {quite overcome, kneeling beside her chair and 
embracing her with boyish ingenuousness). It's all true, 
every word. What I am you have made me with the labor 
of your hands and the love of your heart! You are my 
wife, my mother, my sisters: you are the sum of all loving 
care to me. 

Candida (in his arms, smiling, to Eugene) . Am I your 
mother and sisters to you, Eugene? 

marchbanks (rising with a fierce gesture of disgust). Ah, 
never. Out, then, into the night with me! 

Candida (rising quickly and intercepting him). You are 
not going like that, Eugene? 

marchbanks (with the ring of a man* s voice — no longer a 
boy y s — in the words). I know the hour when it strikes. I 
am impatient to do what must be done. 

morell (rising from his knee, alarmed). Candida: don't 
let him do anything rash. 

Candida (confident, smiling at Eugene). Oh, there is no 
fear. He has learnt to live without happiness* 



Act III Candida 79 

marchbanks. I no longer desire happiness: life is nobler 
than that. Parson James: I give you my happiness with 
both hands: I love you because you have filled the heart of 
the woman I loved. Good-bye. (He goes towards the door.) 

Candida. One last word. (He stops, but without turning 
to her.) How old are you, Eugene? 

marchbanks. As old as the world now. This morning 
I was eighteen. 

Candida (going to him, and standing behind him with one 
hand caressingly on his shoulder). Eighteen! Will you, for 
my sake, make a little poem out of the two sentences I am 
going to say to you? And will you promise to repeat it to 
yourself whenever you think of me? 

marchbanks (without moving) . Say the sentences. 

Candida. When I am thirty, she will be forty-five. 
When I am sixty, she will be seventy -five. 

marchbanks (turning to her). In a hundred years, we 
shall be the same age. But I have a better secret than that 
in my heart. Let me go now. The night outside grows 
impatient. 

Candida. Good-bye. (She takes his face in her hands; 
and as he divines her intention and bends his knee, she kisses 
his forehead. Then he Jiies out into the night. She turns to 
More 11, holding out her arms to him.) Ah, James! (They 
fmbrace. But they do not know the secret in the poef s heart.) 









oo 



LBFe "1 4 



THREE PLAYS 

BY BRIEUX 

(Member of the French Academy) 

MATERNITY 
DAMAGED GOODS 

THE THREE DAUGHTERS OF 
MONSIEUR DUPONT 

WITH PREFACE BY BERNARD SHAW 
Translated into English 

By Mrs. BERNARD SHAW, ST. JOHN HANKIN 
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Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: May 2009 

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